Faraduen
by phatbasset
Summary: William D'Avrille is the General of the dreaded Knights of Mordichan. Sent to war against the Queen of Faraduen under dubious auspices, he goes through many life changing events before finding that happiness can come from more than the thrill of battle.
1. Default Chapter

1The Knights of Mordichan rode through the town of Tarsch on their way to the campaign against the Queen of Faraduen. Travel weary, General D'Avrille pulled his men up short before the local stable. The heat of the late afternoon sun was causing him to sweat under his armor; a thing that rarely happened in the northern climes of Mordichan and yet another drawback of this trek to the south. With a grim and weary eye, he surveyed the small town, knowing it to be the last outpost in Mordichan before they crossed the border into Faraduen. He doubted the town's ability to host even as small a contingent as this one, a mere fifteen men. Sadly, there was no other choice. He swung down from his mount and called to his second in command.

"Meager pickings, Bausch, but the best we have. Let's settle in for the night. Tomorrow we should be off before daybreak."

Captain Bausch made for the local stable to procure boarding for the horses as D'Avrille turned toward the only tavern in town to make arrangements for his men.

The strong aroma of hops and wood smoke assailed his senses as D'Avrille entered the tavern. Though well into the dinner hour, few other patrons were in attendance. D'Avrille noted this with some disappointment, any hopes of a decent meal dying as he passed over the threshold. Two men, shabbily dressed and obviously fresh from the fields, sat at the table nearest the fire, deep in their cups. A portly woman swiped at another table with a filthy rag, wiping more dirt onto the surface than off. And in the back corner, a young lad sat, half covered in shadow and obviously watching the large man enter with some fascination. D'Avrille knew the look, as he had seen it on the faces of many young men in all the small towns they had ridden through for the past two weeks. An awe inspired by the first sight of a Knight of Mordichan in the fearsome black armor of his rank.

A burly man came from the back room behind the bar, and glared in D'Avrille's general direction.

"What kin I get yer?"

"I need room and board for fifteen men for the night."

The man chuffed and his scowl became more of a smirk.

"Ach! An' where yer think yer be? We got nothin' like it 'ere. I got three good rooms. Can put up mos'of 'em if they triple up. The rest'll have t' bunk in them stables."

"That will do. What about rations?"

"Bes' I got is bread and gruel. The ale be good. If yer drink up enough of the ale, the gruel ain't so bad."

D'Avrille's face soured with his stomach, and he had to force himself to throw the small bag of gold on the counter. The man grabbed the bag greedily and his smirk became a gritty, gap toothed grin as he tested the weight in his hand.

"Aye, sir. Thank yer."

Bausch and the rest of the men came in from the stables. The small room became cramped with bodies and oppressive with the tang of sweat and horse. The men stretched their travel weary legs and a symphony of groans and grumbles could be heard as the portly woman and several skinny, dirty children passed bowls of gruel and pints of ale around the room.

D'Avrille and Bausch commandeered a table for themselves, taking some time to discuss their plans for the morning before the fatigue of travel truly set in.

"The hardest press is over, William. We should make the field by mid-morning."

"Aye, Charles."

Bausch watched his old friend's face droop with weariness and trouble.

"Do you still feel wrong about this?"

"Aye."

"Don't worry so much, William. Lord Whitehall is certain our presence is all that is needed to push this war in our favor."

D'Avrille looked at the faces of his men as they choked down the greasy gruel and stale ale. He neither liked nor understood this mission. For five years Lord Whitehall had acted as regent of Mordichan, since the death of the most excellent King Gregor. And in those five years, Whitehall had deferred to D'Avrille in all things military. Having been King Gregor's chief war councilor, and as the commanding General of the fearsome Knights of Mordichan, D'Avrille's grasp of strategy and attack was nothing short of genius. Yet, in this attack against the Queen of Faraduen, Whitehall had seen fit to keep his own council.

D'Avrille could not see the reason in it. And, to add insult to injury, Whitehall had put the Mordichan armies under the command of Captain Lemeaux of the northern division. The man had never seen battle, much less led an army into one.

Whitehall had sought to smooth D'Avrille's ruffled feathers by telling him this small war was not worthy of such greatness as his, and it was a perfect little skirmish for Lemeaux to get his feet wet in. Whitehall did put the Knights on alert, in the event that Lemeaux became overwhelmed. And as of two weeks prior, just such an event happened.

A low groan from Bausch brought D'Avrille to the present. Many of the men had trudged off to bed, and the room was devoid of any local patrons, save the young boy in the corner, who had apparently fallen asleep. Bausch groaned again and rose.

"I'm off to bed, William. You look wretched. Don't stay up all night making eyes at the barkeep's wife."

D'Avrille growled as Bausch clasped his shoulder and left. Seeing there was nothing else that needed attending to, D'Avrille made his way toward his own slumber.

Another hour passed before the barkeep noticed the lad in the corner had finally left. He muttered and cursed as he set about closing the tavern, not hearing the soft clopping of hooves pass by his window as he set about his chores.

"Syd," a harsh whisper came from the brush just off the road. The lithe figure jumped from its mount and led it into the thicket.

"What word do you bring, Syd?"

"Its as we thought, Dougan. The Knights in full force. They aim to be on the field by mid-morning."

"And D'Avrille?"

"Aye, and Bausch as well."

Dougan shook his head at this grim news. This battle was far from over.

A slim hand grasped his shoulder, and he looked up to see a sly smile illuminated by the sparse moonlight.

"Courage, Dougan. It will take more than the likes of D'Avrille to conquer us. Don't I always find a way?"

"Aye, Syd, that you do."

"Then let's be off. We have a long night ahead of us."

Two mounted figures flew through the night, hell bent toward Faraduen and the battle that awaited them on the morn.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter 2

Mordichan's armies were camped just north of the border of Faraduen. By dawn, D'Avrille and his men were outside the encampment, eyeing the disarray with disgust. There was no semblance of order to be found. Pots and pans and personal effects were strewn here and there, and several men slouched by long dead fires, obviously feeling the effects of too much drink from the night before.

D'Avrille urged his mount Helios forward through the mess. An occasional bleary eye turned his way, but no one acknowledged him, causing his anger to grow by the minute. He had expected the army to be ready to march out on his arrival, but from the sight around him, it would be hours before they would be able to take the field. D'Avrille reached down and grabbed the next sodden soldier he passed. Holding the man by the shirt front, D'Avrille pulled him up to eye level.

"Where is Captain Lemeaux?"

The wretch hiccupped as his eyes rolled back, his stomach protesting the sudden change in elevation. D'Avrille dropped him, sure the only answer he would get from that man would be in the form of stomach bile. Helios picked his way around cold fire pits and empty bottles of spirits, as D'Avrille searched for the command tent. After several minutes of fruitless effort and having used up the last of his patience, D'Avrille raised his voice, projecting his booming baritone out over the camp with the same ferocity he employed on the battlefield.

"Get up, you lazy mongrels. Get up!"

Bausch led the other Knights through the camp, echoing D'Avrille's wake up call. Bleary eyed soldiers stumbled from their tents, many covering their ears against the noise. And yet, as the soldiers massed together, D'Avrille still saw no sign of Lemeaux.

"Are we not at war? Why are you still in bed at the hour when we should be marching on Faraduen? Where is your commander?"

A few tentative voices rose above the general grumbles and moans.

"He's nowhere to be seen, sir," cried one.

"Hasn't been out of his tent for nigh on three days," spoke another.

"Which is his tent?"

"I'll take you to him, General." A man of average height and unremarkable appearance pushed his way through the mob. He had an air of agitation about him.

"And who are you?" D'Avrille glared down at the man with obvious frustration.

"I am Captain Lemeaux's second. Runyon, sir, Thomas Runyon. I'll take you to him."

D'Avrille called to Bausch, and told him to have the soldiers ready to march within the hour. He then dismounted and attempted to hand Helios over to Bausch, who shook his head violently and whispered to D'Avrille sharply.

"Oh, no, please. Don't leave him with me, he hates me. Get one of the others to watch him."

"I don't have time for games, Bausch. Just take the reins. I'll only be a moment."

"No."

"Bausch, do you mean to make a fool of me in front of these men?"

"No! Please, just ask one of the others."

D'Avrille looked to the rest of his men and though they had not heard the verbal exchange, they knew exactly what D'Avrille was asking for. In unison, all except one shook their heads in the negative, several blanching. D'Avrille turned back to Bausch.

"For the love of the gods, he's only a horse. Just take the reins."

"Griffin! Ask Griffin. He's new, he'll do it."

D'Avrille looked to the one man who had not acted like a coward over the horse.

Augustus Griffin was sure he had wanted to be a Knight of Mordichan from the time he was in his mother's womb. His whole young life had been dedicated to the pursuit of his dream, much to the chagrin of his family who never thought he would achieve his goal. He was far too short and severely pigeon-toed. Because of his small stature, most of the heavy bladed weapons were useless to him, so he tried his hand at the bow. To the astonishment of all, he had an amazing eye and flawless accuracy. Yet, this was not his only talent. He found his twisted legs could grip a horse's girth in such a way that made it impossible to knock him off. His seat was by no means pretty, but it was sure. Griffin was pleased with his new found talents, so he combined the two and practiced night and day until he was old enough to present himself before the Knights as a possible candidate.

On the day Griffin stood before General D'Avrille with his request, he nearly lost his courage. Bausch had laughed at him heartily, and D'Avrille had almost thrown him out on his ear. It took a large amount of finesse to convince them to test his skills. But he was certain that once they saw what he could do they would let him join their ranks. And he was right. It took no more than five minutes for D'Avrille to sign him on as a squire to Sir Porter, a man known for his patience and skill. Under Sir Porter's tutelage and within a year, Griffin was sponsored as a Knight Initiate. He hoped his performance in this battle would prove him worthy of taking on the title of Knight of Mordichan.

"Griffin."

Griffin dismounted and approached, coming to attention before his commander.

"Aye, General!"

"Take charge of Helios until I return."

"Aye, General!"

D'Avrille threw Bausch a smug look as he followed Runyon in search of Captain Lemeaux. Bausch turned toward Griffin and shook his head gravely.

"Good luck with him, son. He's hell spawned."

Griffin looked up at the sorrel charger who was a full hand taller than his own hearty black gelding. He frowned at the look in Helios' eye.

Runyon took D'Avrille to a tent similar in size and quality as all the others.

"This is the commander's tent?"

"Yes, sir. Captain Lemeaux wanted the men to respect him and feel he was one of them. So he made sure that he had nothing above what the other men had. He had good intentions, sir. He just got in over his head."

That Runyon referred to Lemeaux in the past tense was not lost on D'Avrille. He began to worry at what he might find on the other side of the canvas.

Runyon pulled back the flap and stepped aside as D'Avrille entered the small space. A still shape lay on a mat at the back of the tent. D'Avrille saw no movement, but a eerie whisper wended its way toward him, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. He threw a quick glance at Runyon, only to find the man looking at the form with sadness and sympathy.

"Is he ill?"

"No, sir. He's gone mad. Completely mad. Its been coming on slowly since we first took the field. Lord Whitehall assured us that this would only be a small skirmish over some trade route, and that a show of force by our army would be enough to send the enemy packing. But when we met on the battlefield…"

"Go on."

"They out numbered us five to one, sir."

"Surely the majority of them were unskilled farmers, Runyon. Would you have me believe you balked at a few thousand men with pitchforks?"

"No, sir. Not a single one I came across was poorly armed or less skilled than me. And at the skirmish three days ago they took out half our men. That's when the Captain was lost to us all together. He knows that too many good men died because he was ill equipped to lead."

D'Avrille stepped forward to look at the Captain. The poor man's face was sunken and pale. His haunted eyes stared lifelessly at the space before him. The only testament to his continued existence was the strange mewling sound issuing from his mouth.

"I've done all I can to keep the men out there together, but I hear their mutterings of revolt. I have to tell you, I was relieved when I got word of your coming."

D'Avrille could only shake his head in disbelief at the predicament he now found himself in. At this point in time he knew he had fifteen men he could count on against what sounded like a sizable army. How had the Queen of Faraduen amassed such numbers? Had she hired mercenaries to fight her battle?

"I will assume command from this moment on."

Runyon nodded, a great weight lifting from his shoulders.

"The men require a firm hand to bring them back in line, Runyon, and I am prepared to do just that."

Runyon nodded again as they left the tent.

From the look of things, Bausch was able to get the men dressed, armed, and in some vague sort of formation. D'Avrille could see fear etched on their faces, and he was sure at that moment more than half would run away from a battle before they would run toward one.

He motioned to Runyon.

"Does that hill there overlook the field?"

"Aye, sir."

"Come with me, and show me what we are up against."

D'Avrille turned to where he had last left Griffin and Helios, but found nothing. He frowned at Bausch, who was holding the reins of Griffin's black gelding and very obviously holding back a torrent of laughter. He motioned toward a large tent that looked to house the smithy. A pole stood outside the tent, generally used to tie the horses for the smithy as he worked on their hooves. But today it was under a different employment. Poor Griffin was backed against it with Helios's head just inches from his face, daring him to move. The boy looked sick with fear, and tried once to dart around the pole, maybe hoping to put the solid mass between them. Helios anticipated his move and put a forefoot on Griffins boot, pinning him in place.

D'Avrille cursed under his breath as he stalked over to save the boy.

"Griffin, do you know nothing of horses?"

"Sir, he… he…"

"What did you do to offend him?"

Griffin stood shaking as D'Avrille pulled Helios away, stroking his neck affectionately.

"I drew breath, sir."

D'Avrille sent the boy back to his own mount with a stern look of disapproval. When Griffin got to Bausch, the large man rested a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Well, now. A reasonably good effort, son. You lasted a lot longer than Sorens over there, but I think Parrish still holds the record."

"I swear I've never met a horse I couldn't get along with. I could even say I get along with horses better than I do most men. But that one…"

"That one is no horse. He's evil incarnate. D'Avrille is the only one who can handle him, and he doesn't believe us when we tell him what that great beast does when he's not looking. I've never seen anything like it."

Griffin grinned sheepishly as several of the other Knights came and offered him their condolences, sharing stories of their own dealings with the scourge of the stables.

From the crest of the hill, D'Avrille and Runyon looked down on the armies of Faraduen. Ten tight formations of what looked to be several hundred men a piece stood quietly at the ready, looking to the hills for a sign of action. Two lone figures stood guard at the head of the group.

"There's more than before, sir."

"Can you guess at how many more, Runyon?"

"I'd say about five hundred or so."

The odds were exceedingly against them, and for the first time in his career, D'Avrille felt he might lose.


	3. Chapter 3

Definitions:

Courbette: an action made by a horse in which it rears up and jumps forward on its hind legs to plough through ranks of foot soldiers

Capriole: an action made by a horse in which it leaps up from a rearing position, kicks out behind and lands on all fours to clear a space in the tight quarters of a battlefield.

Flail: a weapon consisting of wooden handle, a moderate length of chain, and a spiked metal ball at the end.

**Chapter Three**

The early morning sun hid behind an overcast sky, bleak and dreary. General William D'Avrille brought his mount Helios to the crest of the hill, the full contingent of the army of Mordichan fanned out behind him. His attempt to bolster the morale of the soldiers had met with some succes. Yet in the last few minutes of quiet before he began the charge, D'Avrille felt an unfamiliar wave of trepidation wash over him. With a deep breath, he shook it off and reviewed his strategy. It had only taken a short deliberation for D'Avrille to settle on a three pronged attack against the men of Faraduen. Due to the limited amount of resources at his disposal, there were few other options to choose from. He felt his only hope was to maximize on the unique talents of his knights to stun and demoralize the enemy, knowing that his men were severely outnumbered.

For the first wave D'Avrille sent Griffin and a few other knights with an attachment of roughly one hundred men against Faraduen's right flank. Though the initial assault bolstered his hopes and seemed to push back the enemy, he saw Griffin get into trouble as several of the enemy foot soldiers tried to surround him and pull him from his mount.

With a small kick to the flank, Griffin had spurred his well trained black gelding into a dangerous courbette. With a swiftness the black horse reared up and hopped forward, wading through the men like a scythe through a field of wheat. Anyone foolish enough not to get out of the way received a severe blow to the head by the dark animal's dangerous front hooves. And when this did not deter the onslaught Griffin brought his mount into a capriole. At the height of his lunge the animal jumped from the ground and struck out behind, knocking many men senseless and allowing Griffin to regain the advantage while unleashing a firestorm of arrows on the ground troops. The boy was a genius on horseback, and watching from the hill, D'Avrille had never been more appreciative of his skills.

Seeing that Griffin was gaining tentative ground, D'Avrille motioned to his second in command, Charles Bausch, to begin his attack. Bausch then lead the charge against the left flank. Behind him rode the bulk of the Knights bearing the heaviest weapons.

For all his charm and good humor outside of a conflict, Bausch the Hammer was a legend upon the battlefield. With a blood-curdling yell, he swung his great war hammer over his head and lead his attachment into the fray. The sheer speed and force of the Knights' attack was usually enough to cause an enemy to balk. And that was true enough on this day. But for every man that balked, three more rose to take up the fight. Soon Bausch and his men were outnumbered and dismounted, fighting for their lives in a sea of swords and blood.

D'Avrille knew he had to act quickly, before the sight of Bausch losing ground affected the remaining men. With a horn blast he led his attachment into battle, only a few paces in front of Captain Lemeaux's de facto replacement, Thomas Runyon. D'Avrille's goal was to wade through the center of the Faraduen army, gaining as much ground as possible with speed and force.

With a ferocity D'Avrille plowed through the enemy, cutting a swath of admirable proportions. Runyon and the soldiers behind him also seemed to gain substantial ground for some time. But after the first hour it seemed that D'Avrille's troops were no longer gaining ground but merely struggling to hold it. And finally it became painfully clear that they were being pushed back. It was at this point that Runyon fell.

D'Avrille had pulled Helios around to face a rear attack when it happened. He had lost track of the commander of the Faraduen army early on, but now he saw that the large man slashing his way through D'Avrille's troops like so much chaff, his obvious target being Runyon. The fight was short as Runyon was seriously outmatched by the larger man. D'Avrille had tried to come to his aide, but was too late. Runyon was run through by the other's blade.

Any hope that D'Avrille had been able to rally into the hearts of the Mordichan army before the battle died with Runyon and the loss of ground. He scanned the field for Griffin. The boy was holding his own, oblivious of the crushing blow to their army's moral. He looked again toward Bausch, but could not find him in the chaos.

And then came the sound of a horn. It was a blaring, piercing sound and with it all fighting had ceased. A young voice cut through the eerie silence on the field. D'Avrille soon caught sight of the owner of that voice, astride a dappled gray horse and headed straight toward him. D'Avrille recognized the youth as the smaller of the two people heading the Faraduen army before the battle. D'Avrille wondered at the rapt attention that the enemy soldiers paid to this mere child and watched as the youth removed his helm and ran a slim hand through obviously freshly and closely cropped, honey colored locks. In the light of day, D'Avrille failed to recognize this interloper as the young boy from the tavern.

"Men of Mordichan, you have been defeated. There are too few of you left to win this battle. Turn back now and live."

D'Avrille straightened in his saddle and removed his helm, eyeing the youth who was now stopped a few feet before him.

"I believe the men of Mordichan to be made of thicker stuff than to be scared off by the words of one as young and small as you," D'Avrille spat out disdainfully.

"Do you wish to sacrifice your few remaining men to appease your great pride?"

"What do I truly have to fear, when the army of Faraduen employs its General's squire as its mouthpiece?"

The youth laughed heartily and turned to the large man who had so recently been the end of Thomas Runyon. D'Avrille knew him to be the other figure sitting before the Faraduen army before the battle by his size and the elaborate coat of arms on his armor.

"Dougan, this great man believes you to be the leader of the armies of Faraduen. What have you to say to that?"

"I say it's a task better left to you, Syd."

D'Avrille's anger was palpable as a ripple of laughter coursed through the surrounding army. He leaned forward in his saddle and fixed his stern gaze on the youth.

"Do you mean to make fun of me, small child? For I assure you I am not your wet nurse who will let you do as you please and strut around with your chest puffed out before you. I will carve you cleaner than a roasted pig and serve you to my horse for a snack."

With an impish grin Syd also leaned forward and cocked an eyebrow.

"I would like to see you try."

D'Avrille jumped down from Helios and fixed his helm to his saddle horn. With a flourish he spun his heavy broadsword in his hand and pointed it at Syd.

"Come and meet your death, little one."

Syd also dismounted.

"Take care," Dougan whispered, halting Syd with a hand on the shoulder. "I've been watching him as best I could during battle. He is very fast with that sword. If you are not careful he will cut through your leather cuirass with ease. Keep light on your feet and just out of range of his swing. Use his momentum against him."

Syd nodded, pulling a flail from the saddle.

Slowly D'Avrille swung his blade around, waiting for his enemy to make a move. Syd feinted to the left, drawing D'Avrille's full swing. Darting back and lunging right, Syd swung the flail full force against D'Avrille's knee. The blow knocked D'Avrille off balance, but he recovered quickly though he favored his injured leg. His ire rose greatly, and he struggled to control it as he watched the mouthy youth bob and weave before him like a hooded snake poising to strike.

D'Avrille waited a heartbeat then thrust his blade with a startling quickness, catching Syd across the ribs and slicing through the light leather cuirass. Syd dropped and rolled, swinging the flail against D'Avrille's left ankle. Springing up, Syd pulled hard with both hands. This action caused D'Avrille to flip onto his back. With his air knocked from him and his unwieldy armor working against him, he was an easy target. Syd flipped the flail over and hit D'Avrille across the temple with the wooden handle, effectively knocking the man unconscious.

The army of Faraduen roared with victory as Dougan rushed forward to take D'Avrille's sword. He then turned to Syd to inspect the injury the black knight had caused.

"Its not deep, thankfully, but you need to get it attended to. You are lucky, Syd. One day this dangerous game will catch up with you, and for a moment there I was sure it was going to be today."

"Not today, Dougan. Today the goddess smiles upon me. Upon us all!"

With a smile, Syd remounted and swung the flail high in the air.

Again the Faraduen men roared, chanting the name of Syd like a mantra of hope. Syd lifted a hand to quiet the troops speaking again.

"Mordichan, I have just bested your greatest hope of victory. Surrender your weapons now and there will be no more bloodshed."

Realizing fully their defeat, the men of Mordichan did just that.

D'Avrille awoke with a foggy mind, and found he could not rub the soreness at his temple. He was bound. As the fog started to lift, he could see he was in a tent and from the ache in his back he could tell he was tied to a pole. He heard a groan behind him and turned as far as he could to see where it came from.

"Bausch, is that you?" D'Avrille could just make out the top of a yellow haired head.

"Aye, William," came the gravelly answer.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, just a little rattled. How about you?"

D'Avrille's answer was cut short as the tent flaps opened and Dougan entered the tent with two loaves of bread, two flasks and four large men.

"Hello, gentlemen. Good to see you with us again. I've brought you some food and drink. I suggest you take advantage of it; we march for the castle in two hours."

The prisoners were untied and allowed to eat, while Dougan took a look at D'Avrille's head.

"You have a pretty good wound there, General. I'll send someone in to clean that up."

"I'll be fine," D'Avrille growled.

"It will do you no good to be so prideful, General. Syd has made it clear we are to treat you with nothing but respect."

"Respect! What does that tongue-wagging brat know of respect? And what kind of army puts its trust in the leadership of a child?"

"You are offended because you believe you were beaten by a boy?" Dougan asked.

D'Avrille answered only with a hard stare. This day had been fraught with humiliation after humiliation, and he had had his fill of it.

Dougan looked at the proud man, then threw his head back and laughed deeply.

"Then I can hardly wait to see how you feel about things when we reach the castle tomorrow!"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Camp broke down quickly, or so it seemed from the outside noises that carried into their canvas prison. D'Avrille and Bausch sat in momentary silence hoping to overhear any particulars about their fate. Yet the only information they could glean was that the one called Syd had a tight grip and efficient control over the large army. D'Avrille could not help but nod approval at the swift orders being issued to the soldiers, noting the similarities to his own manner of command.

By early afternoon, Dougan and his four henchmen returned to the tent. One of the men carried some water, strips of cloth and what looked like a pot of salve. He knelt before D'Avrille and asked permission to attend to the wound on his head. D'Avrille nodded, thrown off balance by the unusual hospitality and respect he was being shown by his captors. He raised his guard even more, wondering why a prisoner of an invading army was being treated with so much respect. Maybe they meant to soften him up in order to gain his trust and glean information from him. No matter what their purpose, D'Avrille was not going to fall for their schemes.

Once the man had cleaned and dressed D'Avrille's wound, Dougan gave orders to bring the prisoners out and begin packing up the tent. D'Avrille and Bausch were untied and another man was brought in, the smithy by the looks of him, carrying a large chain equipped with two sets of manacles.

"Put yer 'ands out," the beefy man ordered.

D'Avrille and Bausch exchanged glances, both knowing now was not the time to try for an escape. The smithy snapped the manacles around their proffered wrists, tapping the securing bolts firmly in place with a hammer pulled from his belt. Once the task was done, the pair was lead out into the bright afternoon sun.

As D'Avrille's eyes adjusted to the quick change in lighting, he noted that theirs was the only tent left standing. The whole camp was packed up and men were falling into formation, ready to march out on their commander's word. D'Avrille could see the sad remainder of his own men, some one hundred fifty of them, chained, disarmed, and surrounded by mounted guards. Their faces were covered in mud, blood and fear, each sure they were being marched to their deaths. D'Avrille raised his chin and squared his shoulders as he and Bausch were marched past the prisoners, letting his men see that he had not been broken, that there was still hope.

"Have you seen Griffin?" Bausch whispered hoarsely.

"Not since the battle. I hope he is not lost."

Bausch grunted in agreement. He was keenly feeling the loss of three of the knights he had led into battle and did not want to find that they had lost Griffin as well.

A loud squeal drew everyone's attention to a cloud of dust where the center of camp had been. A group of men were struggling with a large sorrel beast. Bausch threw his head back and howled with laughter despite his captive status. It was good to see that beast's sour temperament come to good use.

"It will take more than the lot of you to tame that monster," he yelled at the men.

"Give them hell, Helios!" D'Avrille seconded as Helios reared up, throwing his fine head and lashing his flaxen tail.

Without hesitation, Syd rode into the fracas and grabbed the large beast's lead. The men backed away, glad to have a reprieve from the demon horse but certain that Syd could not handle him alone. Helios came down from his blustering and rearing and gave Syd the full force of his glare. His look was matched in length and intensity and this made Helios none to happy, especially since this scrawny person had the high ground. Helios moved forward, teeth barred and ready to take a bite from the insolent youth's leg. Without warning, Syd's roan mare spun and gave Helios a hard kick to the chest. He jumped back, startled.

"Good girl, Halifax. Tell him how things really are," Syd cooed to the pretty mare.

With a toss of her mane, Halifax turned back to face the shaken brute. Helios recalculated his plan of attack. With a sudden force he hopped back, hoping to pull hard enough against the lead to pull the small person from the mare's saddle or better yet, to pull the lead completely free. But again he was foiled. It seemed the youth had anticipated his move and had wrapped the end of the lead around the mare's saddle horn. As Helios began his backward movement, the mare made a backward movement of her own, sitting on her haunches and using her weight against him. Helios stumbled and fell to a knee. His anger was almost palpable, and was equal to that of his owner, D'Avrille, who looked on the whole thing with nothing less than furious contempt. D'Avrille turned his back on the sight, leaving Bausch to laugh alone.

Syd urged Halifax forward, pulling the chastised Helios along to the front of the army.

A trumpet blared over the mass of men, signaling the start of the march. D'Avrille and Bausch were held back as the main body of soldiers moved past. Slowly the river of bodies flowed homeward, the small island of prisoners being pulled along in its wake. D'Avrille took note of the wounded being loaded into wagons and onto litters as the army passed and was shocked to see Captain Lemeaux being loaded up as well. They had gone back to the Mordichan camp to search for any stragglers. As angry as he was, he felt a grudging respect for this Syd of Faraduen. The youth obviously had a military mind.

A small group of men, maybe fifty in total, were being directed by a lesser commander to stay behind and see to the burying of the dead as D'Avrille and Bausch were finally led into the march behind the wounded. Dougan rode nearby, unwilling to leave such dangerous prisoners unattended for a moment.

The dust was settling over the field as the last of the wounded were found and taken back toward camp and the medic's wagons. The voices of the Faraduen soldiers searching for the wounded waxed and waned over the form of the young man with the twisted legs, still seated in the saddle of his black horse as though they were a statue tipped upon its side. Several times men would stop and look, shaking their heads at the sorry sight of the poor young man who had gone down with his horse. He had obviously received a grievous head wound, the blood streaming down his face like red tears. And then they would move on, looking for the unfortunate few who lay buried alive beneath the wanton destruction of the battlefield.

Silence settled on the land, a brief lull between the leaving of the wounded and the coming of the gravediggers. And once that silence had taken a firm grip a small clucking sound came from the youth with the twisted legs, and with a great groan the large black horse rose from his false death as Griffin wiped the blood of his enemies from his eyes and face. Every thing was awash in an eerie stillness, and Griffin knew himself to be alone. He turned his mount toward Mordichan and with a touch to the flank Griffin gave the horse his head, hell bent for home to warn Lord Whitehall of all that had happened.

D'Avrille had no other recourse during the march but to take in the scenery. Once outside the muddy surroundings of the Faraduen campsite, a vast paradise spread out before him. Green and lush, hilly and fragrant, the land of Faraduen was a thing of beauty and pleasure. The farm lands seemed heavily laden with their wholesome bounty and the large mass of dusty and bloody men marching through the vast fields of buttercups seemed jarringly incongruous. D'Avrille himself felt like a hulking oaf compared to the delicate beauty around him. And Bausch seemed to fair no better, his eyes alight with wonder like a boy at his first tournament.

For hours they marched, yet had the circumstances been different D'Avrille would have almost admitted to it being a pleasure. So breathtaking was the approaching sunset that D'Avrille was unaware of the time they had been on foot. Hours had passed and the men were being brought to a halt for a short evening meal of dried meat, bread and hard cheese.

"Don't get too comfortable," Dougan spoke from the back of his horse. "We won't be here long. Syd means for us to march all night and be at the castle before day break."

Sure enough, everyone was back on their feet and pressing on before the sun had passed behind the far mountains; the mountains of Mordichan. D'Avrille heaved a sigh of regret and anger at the sad turn the day's events had taken. He had lost, though he knew before going into it that it had been a hopeless battle. Even yet, he had hoped he could still bring about a victory.

The guards around the captives were doubled as torches were lit against the impending darkness of night. And yet even this seemed to work in favor of the army of Faraduen. A full moon lit the sky and any hope of escape was once again squashed into nothingness. And still they marched on.

As Dougan promised, just as the darkness that washes the earth before the dawn rose around them, the white walls of the castle loomed high above them. With a shout of greeting the guards raised the portcullis and let down the bridge, allowing passage across the deep moat surrounding the castle. As best he could, D'Avrille took in the make of the castle's defenses. A high wall with what looked like four towers complete with arrow slits surrounded the castle keep. Across the drawbridge and past a small outer court there stood another wall with a second portcullis. This, too, was lifted and D'Avrille was unable to make out any more. The bulk of the prisoners were led toward a makeshift enclosure. This wide area was fenced with iron bars half was covered over with thatch, to provide shade from the sun. A large group of guards stood watch as the men were pushed through the gates. D'Avrille and Bausch expected to be housed there as well, but Dougan pushed them in a different direction.

The Faraduen army broke off into groups, headed to their homes and their families. A few young boys ran among those whose residence was in the castle, taking their horses and weapons. Only Syd remained seated on Halifax, Helios still tied to the saddle horn. Syd caught D'Avrille's eye and smiled.

"You've a fine horse here, General. He's a little testy, but once he knows who's in charge he settles right in."

D'Avrille gave no answer as Dougan ushered him and Bausch into the castle.

"Where are you taking us?" D'Avrille asked.

"To your rooms, General. We can't have you mingling with your troops and getting them all worked up, now, can we?"

Dougan took the men to a large room with barred windows, opulent in its appointments and fit for a sleeping chamber of a visiting dignitary. Once again the smithy was brought in, this time to remove their chains.

"Your baths will be drawn and fresh clothes laid out for you. These men will take your armor and have it cleaned and stored until… later," Dougan indicated the four men who had been the captives' constant companions since the beginning of the march. "Then I suggest you rest for a few hours. You will be presented at court by ten."

"Can you believe this, William?" Bausch stood in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips as Dougan left. "Who treats their prisoners like this? I was sure it was the dungeon for us."

"Don't get used to it, Charles. They want something from us, or they wouldn't be buttering us up like a couple of roasting hens."

Each man was drawn a bath, and it went a long way to soothing their aching muscles. A light meal of fruit, cheese and wine awaited them after they dressed in the simple but comfortable clothes left for their use. Bausch yawned and rubbed at his eyes, the effects of the wine seeping in.

"Get some sleep, Charles. You look like you could use it, and who knows what these strange people have in store for us today."

With a nod, Bausch trudged toward the large carved bed, resplendent with velvets and silks in deep hues of red and gold. Its beauty was lost on him as he fell onto the soft coverlet, asleep before his head hit the pillow.

D'Avrille paced the room, unable to relax. He fell into deep thought, wondering what kind of country could amass such a well trained army but would put them under the leadership of a child. And what kind of child was so well versed in the art of war that he could single-handedly bring down a man twice his size with years more experience in battle. It was an enigma, and what confused him more was the subtle feeling in the back of his mind that he was somehow being manipulated.

The morning sun rose higher in the sky, and D'Avrille and Bausch, recently awoken from his rest, were once again visited by Dougan and the smithy. Their bonds were replaced and they were escorted down a hall in the company of the four guards. They were led through carpeted hallways adorned with beautifully crafted tapestries until they reached a large set of carved wooden doors. Here they stood in silence for several minutes, D'Avrille and Bausch not sure what was to happen next. Not much later, Syd approached. No longer clad in the lightweight leather armor from the day before, Syd was magnificently dressed in exquisitely crafted ornamental armor inlaid with gold and precious stones. A small smile graced Syd's lips as D'Avrille looked at the youth.

"You ready, Syd?" Dougan asked.

"Aye, Dougan. Ready as ever."

With a heave, Dougan pulled open the doors giving the group a view of the large throne room beyond. Filled to the brim with patrons of the court, all richly dressed in velvets and jewels and hung with even more tapestries, the court of Faraduen was equal to any D'Avrille had ever seen. But at the end of the long carpeted aisle before them, the throne sat empty. This gave D'Avrille pause.

From the left of the open doors a voice cried out in announcement.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Princess Elsydae."

Before taking a step into the hall, Syd turned her full gaze on D'Avrille and gave him a bawdy wink. Then head held high, she entered the throne room. Once again the name of Syd was shouted out, and though it should seem unfitting for this handsomely dressed court to shout out so loudly like common soldiers, it wasn't. It suited perfectly. To all but one.

Behind the rapturous Princess Elsydea came Dougan and the captives. Bausch was amazed by the unanimous love the court showed the little lass before him, and shook his head at the odd turn of events. D'Avrille was practically swallowed whole by the dark cloud of anger pouring from his eyes. A woman! What kind of witchcraft was this?

True to his word Dougan relished the look upon the great man's face, and laughed heartily all the way down the aisle.

Maybe it was because D'Avrille was too busy boring holes with his eyes into the back of Syd's head, or maybe he was too given over to his anger to acknowledge life outside of his own thoughts. Either way it was a full heart beat before he realized he was the only person standing in a now silent room. D'Avrille turned in time to see Bausch sinking to his knees in awe.

"By the gods, she's an angel."

D'Avrille turned his attention to the throne, and locked eyes with Janessa, Queen of Faraduen.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

In ancient days, the people of the world were as innocent children and the land was a harsh and inhospitable place. In fear and need their troubled spirits cried out. The goddess, Faydn, looked down upon their hapless souls and took pity upon them and sheltered them. She taught them skills that would enable them to live in the world and to tame it. The people took her gift of knowledge and prospered, but soon they grew proud and forgot about Faydn and her gift.

The goddess was hurt by their fickle nature and withdrew to the mountains that bordered the northern land that was to become Mordichan. Here she communed with the god, Fjorn, who had no love for the people of the world. Fjorn found his pleasure in the flora and fauna, the rocks, the streams, and the animals of the world. From his domain high upon the craggy mountainside, he shared his passions with Faydn and they forged a bond.

Sadly, as time progressed, the race of man began to once again fall on hard times. Without the love and guidance of the goddess, the people began to struggle against the wildness of the land and the boldness of marauding wolves and bears. Then one morning from the south, Faydn heard her name called out in desperation. She rose from her place at Fjorn's side and followed the call to the small farming village of Faraduen. The small community had been besieged by wild beasts and it was obvious the people's strength and resources were flagging. Faydn cast her gaze toward a small cottage surrounded on one side by trees and the other by grazing fields. A frail woman clutched three small children to her near the door of the cottage as a young girl stood over the prone and bloody body of a dead man, a torch in one hand and a chipped and rusted short sword in the other. With great sweeps of her arms, the young girl sought to fend off a pack of hungry wolves. The beasts menaced her, their black heads lowered and their yellow eyes glowing with malicious intent. Several dripped red tinged foam from their slavering jowls. But the girl held her position steadfastly, bellowing the name of Faydn like a war cry even as she put herself between harm and her family.

A subtle mist swirled around the girl's ankles as Faydn reached out to the growling attackers. As one they fled, tails tucked and legs pumping. The girl whispered her thanks as she fell to her knees next to the body of the slain man. Grief and blessings poured out in the form of tears as she closed her father's lifeless eyes. Softly, the hint of a hand dried the girl's cheek and soft words spilled into her ears.

It has been long, child of man, since my name had been called. How do you know of me?

"My mother told me about you, about how you saved mankind before. I've always believed in you, though no one speaks openly of you any more. And when… when my father fell, where else could I seek help but you?" The girl's humble reply was laced awe and reverence.

Child, I have helped you, but soon you will forget me.

"No! Never," the girl cried.

Yours is a fickle people, with no memory beyond their own lifespan. You will forget me.

"No! My mother told me of you, and my grandmother told her, and my great-grandmother told my grandmother. We've always known of you."

Faydn glowed, warmed by the thought of this family of women who had kept her memory alive.

"Goddess, I called and you answered. I swear right now over the body of my father, as long as my family bloodline exists you will be remembered."

You've shown a rare braveness and wisdom, daughter, and for it I am going to bestow upon you a blessing. I will set you up as queen of this land called Faraduen, and I will give you a gift to help you rule. And if you keep the faith and teach your daughters as your mothers before you, then your daughters will always sit upon the throne of Faraduen. And each will come to the throne at eighteen in honor of you, and each will be given a gift that will prosper the land and its people.

The girl bowed low to the ground.

"Goddess your name will be first on the lips of our people. I thank you."

It had been thus for centuries. Each queen had a daughter and each daughter was given a holy gift on her eighteenth birthday before she ascended the throne. And each queen remembered Faydn as her ancestor had promised on that fateful day. The people of Faraduen grew under the goddess' love and protection and showed their devotion to her in return. So it was for Janessa, who had received her gift just two years before.

Janessa had been given the gift of surreal beauty; a beauty that caused all in her presence to swear undying devotion and fealty to her. A fitting gift for the time, as Faraduen had been plagued by wars and threats of wars since the months leading up to Janessa's ascension to the throne. It was not unusual for the land to be threatened right before the changing of queens, but Faraduen did not have enough men to supply a full and capable army. So, as random attacks from opportunistic border countries began to occur, Faraduen's small band of forces brought any and all captives before the queen. To the man, the prisoners became sworn defenders upon one look from her brilliant eyes. By the time of Mordichan's attack, Janessa had amassed an impressive army of fully loyal and well trained soldiers.

Just that morning, before entering the throne room, Janessa had walked through the courtyard amongst the prisoners from Mordichan. She had smiled upon them as each fell before her, swearing their undying loyalty and service. With a confidence born from an unbroken string of positive results, Janessa now stood before two more captives. To her utter dismay, for the first time in history the gift failed.

General D'Avrille dipped his head briefly to Queen Janessa.

"Your Grace," he stated respectfully.

A troubled look crossed Janessa's beautiful features and a soft murmur spread amongst the patrons of the court.

"General D'Avrille." The queen's voice was rich and warm and D'Avrille heard a soft sigh issue from the humbled form of Bausch next to him. D'Avrille gave Bausch a small kick in the shin, bringing the large man back to his feet but not to his full senses.

Janessa graced Bausch with a smile before turning her attention back to his recalcitrant friend.

"General D'Avrille, you do not kneel before me?"

"No, Your Grace. You are not my queen."

Janessa thought for a moment before speaking. "But your countryman beside you saw fit to kneel."

The murmuring of the rows of bystanders took on an angrier tone.

"I don't assume to speak for Sir Bausch. He has his own reasoning, I'm sure."

Janessa puzzled over his answer. She focused her gaze on him more fully, as if trying to will him to fall under the powers of her gift. Still he stood before her proud and untouched, meeting her eye to eye. Janessa looked to Syd, who stepped forward to converse quietly with the queen.

"This is alarming, Elsydae. What does this mean?"

"I'm not at all sure. We should call a meeting of the council and discuss it, maybe?" Elsydae queried.

Janessa nodded her fair head and turned her attention to Dougan.

"Dougan, I remand the prisoners to Princess Elsydae. She is to do with them as she sees fit."

Dougan dipped his head. "Yes, Your Grace."

With a smart bow, Syd and her entourage left the court. Syd waited until they were well into the hallway before she spoke to Dougan.

"This is highly unusual, Dougan. I'm not sure what to make of it, but it does not bode well. Were there any other prisoners this morning that did not respond? Any that caused a moment of doubt?"

"No, not one," Dougan affirmed.

"Then I think we should separate D'Avrille and Bausch until we can get a better feel for what is going on."

"Aye, Syd. Where do you want D'Avrille? The dungeon?"

"No," Syd answered quickly. She couldn't remember the last time the dungeon had been in use. "I think it would be better if we continue to treat D'Avrille with deference."

With her thoughts churning like a whirlpool, she came to a stop in the hallway and turned to the prisoners behind her. Several guards moved out of her way as she approached D'Avrille. Rubbing the back of her neck, she looked him squarely in the eye as if trying to read his mind. For several uncomfortable moments she stood there, staring. The man shifted under her intense scrutiny.

Syd let out a small chuckle as an idea illuminated her face.

"I've got it, Dougan. Put him in the room in the upper south wing that overlooks the lunging paddock," she said as she turned back to her second in command. Following her lead, group resumed their march down the hallway.

Dougan raised an eyebrow at her strange request.

"Under heavy guard, of course," she qualified.

Dougan still was at a loss to her reasoning.

"Just trust me," was the extent of her cryptic reply.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Syd strode toward the ante-chamber of the Queen's Council Room deep in thought. Each step closer to the room caused a phantom anxiety to tighten her chest. _Janessa shares my fears. _

As sure as she was living, Syd knew the council would demand the Queen hang General D'Avrille. They would fear him and the potential for harm his failure to fall under the gift would represent. Though this seemed the wisest course of action, Syd knew it would be a grave error. To kill D'Avrille would mean…

"We would never find out why the gift failed, Syd. And with thousands of former enemies now living within our borders, we are in great peril without that answer," Janessa finished Syd's thought as she entered the ante-chamber. Syd nodded gravely at her twin, who had obviously been pacing the room in anticipation of Syd's arrival. For a brief, wistful moment she mourned the fact that since Janessa received the gift they no longer shared a common appearance, but must settle for an occasional similarity of thought.

"We will have a fight on our hands with those old graybeards, Janessa. But I believe it to be a fight worth engaging in."

"Then I will let you lead the charge, Syd. The council will listen to you on this matter."

Syd laid a gentle hand on the worried Queen's shoulder. She knew Janessa's mind to be quick and her decisions to be wise and just, but she also knew that Janessa lacked the confidence to stand up to the grizzled old men in the next room. For years Syd had yielded to Janessa's insecurities by being spokesman during most council meetings. She knew that this time the council could perceive such interference as Syd seeking to further a personal agenda. If she and Janessa wanted to succeed in this matter, they would have to avoid Syd's usual heavy handedness and tread more lightly.

"Janessa, you are Queen and sovereign. The council already thinks I control you like a puppet on a string since I am the one who speaks for you in their presence. They don't understand that your fear is not of me but of them. If we want this to succeed you must stand on your own in this matter and not let them sway you."

Janessa blanched.

"On my own? You will be in the room, Syd. How could you abandon me in my darkest hour? Its cruel!"

"No, dear. Its needed. My absence will assure them that I am not guiding your words and ideas. They will know it is your will alone," Syd affirmed.

Janessa knew her sister's words to be true, and with a deep breath she drew herself up, steeling herself for the task at hand. She could do it, she had always known that she could. For too long, Janessa had hidden behind Syd's skirts, allowing her dear sister to take on the mantle of leadership that was hers to carry. But no more. Today she would take her step forward as a true Queen and rule as she saw fit.

Yet one last insecurity stood in her way; one last fear stalked her thoughts.

"Do you think I have displeased Faydn, Syd? Has she withdrawn her favor?"

"I can think of nothing that would have caused her displeasure, Janessa. You have been constant and true to the promise. Come to me in the temple after your meeting. I will spend that time on my knees in prayer. Hopefully the goddess will give us the answer we seek."

It was all the assurance Janessa needed, and with a word of parting she pushed open the council room doors.

"My Lords, I have come to a decision…"

Stepping away from the range of sight of the council, Syd smiled at her sister's retreating back. A swell of pride replaced the anxious tightness in her breast, as she saw her sister begin to transform into the Queen she always knew her to be. A deep sense of satisfaction accompanied Syd on her walk to the Temple of Faydn.

Across the border, in Mordichan, a similar council meeting was being held.

"What word have we from Faraduen? Have we heard nothing from D'Avrille?" Lord Whitehall's voice bordered on shrill, and he swiftly fought to modify his tone.

"No, My Lord. The Knights would have only just arrived. The swiftest of messengers could not return here before ten days time," Sir Porter responded. Griffin's venerable teacher sat in General D'Avrille's place at the council table, as he was one of the few knights that had been left to man the Knight's Guild while D'Avrille and the others were at war.

"Bring me word as soon as it comes, Porter. I am anxious to know of D'Avrille's… success." Whitehall forced the final word out between his teeth.

"Of course, My Lord," Sir Porter bristled at the lack of respect Whitehall showed him through omission of his hard earned title of Sir, but he bowed his head none the less. He had no love for this man that lead their country, but as a Knight he was honor bound to serve the ruler of Mordichan.

"There is nothing left to discuss. You are all dismissed," Whitehall ordered with the annoyed flip of a hand. Awkwardly, nine of the ten council members rose from their seats, confused that not a single topic of import had been discussed outside of the obscure war with Faraduen. And not a single member of the council, if questioned, could answer why they had truly gone to war at all. Yet each had learned early on not to question Lord Whitehall's wishes. The mercurial regent had made it known forcefully and often that he had a dungeon and he knew how to use it.

When the room had cleared, the remaining council member approached Whitehall and conferred with the man in hushed tones.

"What if he is victorious, My Liege? D'Avrille is a hard man to stop. We should have an alternative plan in case of our fail… his success," Lord Mortimer Younge urged Whitehall.

For more years than Lord Younge could remember, he and Whitehall had been thick as thieves. It was this close relationship that spurred Whitehall to choose him as chief advisor when Whitehall had ascended the throne of Mordichan. Due to the length of their acquaintance, Younge knew well what words would stir Whitehall to anger and which would lead him to action. He chose his words carefully now.

"Do you honestly believe I've not considered this, Younge? The subject has consumed my every waking thought since we found that letter. He must die! I care not how it happens any more! Discretion be damned. I am regent; I rule here. If I choose to end a life, then so be it," Whitehall railed.

"Of course, My Lord. But think a moment, please. He is a favorite amongst the people. They would not look favorably on such a blatant… the unexpected execution of someone they consider honorable. It would damage their respect for you greatly." Younge's sharp mind was equal to the sharp cut and angular lines of his form and features.

"What do I care of the people's opinion? I am sovereign. The only ideals that have merit here belong to me," Whitehall spat.

Younge saw the flush of anger that touched Whitehall's cheeks. He proceeded with the utmost caution.

"My Lord, of course you are correct. But your position is still tentative as long as D'Avrille lives. I urge you most solemnly to consider another option."

"And what is that?"

Younge drew closer to his friend of old and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. As Whitehall listened, a smile of satisfaction touched his lips. Once Younge was sure both men were in agreement, they left the room.

As the men exited, a set of eyes removed from a small chink in the mortar of the darkened back wall of the council chamber. Moments later, Poore Collins could be seen running toward the Great Library. Yet, no one marked his passage. Poore Collins was always running somewhere, bent on some mission for the great Lady Catherine Bellingham.

Amongst her many titles, Lady Catherine, duchess of Rosemont, one of the wealthiest estates in all of Mordichan, was also head patroness of the Great Library. She ruled there with an iron fist, very set in her ideals of how history should be preserved and art enshrined. And as everyone knew, Poore Collins was her chief lackey. Lady Catherine sent him hither and yon on errands great and small. And he was always more than happy to comply, fulfilling all her ladyship's wishes at top speed. The people of town thought the doltish man to be much abused by her ladyship, so they dubbed him Poore Collins. And as no one ever found his company desirous enough to enquire after the man's actual name, he had always been referred to thusly.

With a great sense of self-importance, Collins rapped upon the door of Lady Catherine's private working chambers.

"Enter," the Lady's severe voice cut through the thick mass of the oaken door.

With a sweeping bow, one which Poore Collins delivered no less than a dozen times per day, he presented himself before the great lady.

"Well, Collins. What news do you have for me today?" she spoke, observing him over her spectacles. In her aged yet well formed hands she delicately held a parchment.

"Your Ladyship, I have news of great import! You will be most interested in the information that I was able to acquire whilst lingering in the dark and little used hall that runs to the outside of Lord Whitehall's council chamber. It is most relevant to the matter that has of late held your most esteemed and knowledgeable interest…"

"Yes, yes. Get to it, Collins," she spoke with irritation.

With a large amount of obsequious verbosity, Collins related all he had overheard. Lady Catherine listened attentively, her eyes drawn frequently to the letter in her hands.

"This is dire news indeed, Collins. You have done well to bring it to me. I must think on this. Go and make yourself available to the librarians. I am sure they can find work for you for the rest of the day. I will require some time to myself to formulate a plan of action."

Glowing under her praise, Collins bowed again and left a swiftly as he had entered.

It was tough going for Griffin as he was forced to take little used trails through heavily wooded areas on his way from Faraduen to Mordichan. Though his task was dire, he did find some joy in the time spent with his big black gelding.

It was not with a flip sense of cuteness or pride that he named an animal, and because of this his mount was as of yet nameless. Griffin gave such a responsibility much time and thought, watching and getting to know his horse before settling on the best one for him. To date nothing had come to Griffin, and he hoped this journey would remedy that. What he did know, however, was that the horse had proven himself an intelligent and trustworthy mount during war and also outside of it. He was proud to know the animal, and prouder yet to be in command of such a beast.

General D'Avrille found himself housed once again in a room fit for a dignitary, but this time he was alone. He had no idea where they had taken Bausch, and he was troubled not only by this fact, but also by Bausch's response to the Queen. Her magic had obviously effected the man, and D'Avrille hoped against hope that Bausch would be strong enough to resist her without his help. Slowly he paced the room as he pondered the topic, his path taking him toward the one window in the room. A vast square, separated into quarters by a thick cross of stone, the window overlooked a large expanse of grass. The green was surrounded by a fence of sturdy, hewn logs and to the north of it he could make out the stables. A lunging paddock, no doubt. What purpose could that little imp of a princess have in putting him near a lunging paddock?

A great ruckus from the area of the stables caught his attention, and with a smile he recognized the squealing of a stallion. His stallion. He smiled.

_Give 'em hell, Helios._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

It was touch and go all the way to the border of Mordichan for Augustus Griffin and his black horse. The need to keep hidden and seek out unfamiliar trails set him back at least three days on his journey. Yet, by the look of things, he was now within a day's ride from the border and one more good week of hard riding would bring him to the castle gates.

Griffin could hear the sound of running water on the other side of the thick brush and turned his mount toward it. Pushing through the dense growth, they came upon a fast running stream nestled in between very steep banks. Griffin and his mount were both in need of fresh water and a brief rest. Dismounting, he inspected the banks of the stream trying to find a decent place for the two of them to quench their thirst. But the bank proved dangerous to navigate, and, tripping on a half submerged root, Griffin found himself slipping down the muddy incline toward the rocky steam bed bellow. His feet scrabbled but found no purchase, and his quick decent ended with a final splash into the frigid water. Griffin laughed ruefully at himself as he carefully pushed himself to his feet, slipping and sliding on the algae covered river rocks.

With his whole attention directed toward making it back to the bank, Griffin did not hear the rumble of low growling coming from behind him. What he did hear, however, was a great whoosh of air as a dark shadow passed over his head and landed with a great splash to his rear. Griffin spun just in time to see his black horse rearing and thrashing his hooves at three slavering wolves. Spinning and kicking, the horse pounded the wolves senseless before Griffin had enough time to thoroughly grasp the danger he had been in. The battle lasted only a few moments, and the one living wolf limped away, whimpering with its tail between its legs.

Griffin rushed to his mount, checking the animal for injuries. A few scrapes were all he could find, and nothing needed immediate attention. Taking a calming breath, he laid a hand on the horse's velvet muzzle, chuffing softly to him in an effort to settle the excited beast. It was in this moment of quiet that the name came to him… Wolf's Bane.

Morning broke, as golden streams of light and the sound of voices from outside of his second story window woke General William D'Avrille from his slumber. Groggily he arose, rubbing his sleep numbed face and looking around the room. He had slept as if dead; the battle and long march to the castle having sapped his strength. He noticed that a small tray of fruits and bread sat upon a table near the unlit fire grate. D'Avrille silently reprimanded himself for not having heard anyone enter; ashamed at how easily he had succumbed to the comforts of his opulent prison.

Again voices could be heard through the window of D'Avrille's room. Curious, he tore a hunk of bread from the loaf and sauntered to the window, standing to the side so as to see but not be seen. He noted a group of five men leaned against the railing of the paddock below, chatting softly and looking toward the stables as if expecting something to happen. D'Avrille followed their gaze to a small figure on horseback pulling a very unhappy Helios by rope toward the lunging paddock. With the help of a few of the men from the fence, the rider dismounted and led Helios into the enclosure alone. D'Avrille tensed, a flash of anger running through him like lightening. He recognized Syd immediately and finally knew what she was about. The little witch meant to play mind games with him. He turned brusquely from the window, not willing to give in to her ploy for a second. Tossing the crust of bread back upon the table, he threw himself into a series of vigorous exercises, ignoring the dull ache Syd's hit with the flail had caused in his knee. D'Avrille hoped to keep his mind and body sharp as he waited and watched for an opportunity to escape this gilded cage.

For the next week, D'Avrille was awakened each morning to the sounds of activity outside his window. He staunchly refused to watch, choosing instead to exercise. But man cannot live on exercise alone, and soon he was beset with boredom and loneliness. D'Avrille was unused to inactivity. His days were normally filled with the official duties of his station, and he was constantly surrounded by the trustworthy men of the Knights Guild. Now, he had no occupation save that he made up for himself, and he saw no one but the silent servants who brought his food and drew his bath with mute compliance. And on rare occasions he caught a glimpse of the two guards standing watch outside of his door.

Feeling restless, he began searching the room for secret chinks in hopes of finding a hidden door or passageway leading out, but to no avail. One evening, under the cover of darkness, D'Avrille had even attempted to fit himself through one of the small open square sections made by the stone cross in the window. But alas, he was too big to fit, and the stone was set so securely he could not budge it or chip it away.

By the seventh day of his confinement, he had exhausted all hope of escape from the room and set about thinking of ways to bribe or manipulate the servants into smuggling him out. Yet none would speak to him, and any attempts at conversation by D'Avrille were met with only a smile and a curt nod.

It wasn't until he awoke earlier than usual one morning that he thought he might have a glimmer of hope. A young girl, nineteen years old at best, brought in his morning repast just as he was sitting up in his bed. D'Avrille was unused to the heat that lasted well into the night in this southern clime, and had taken to sleeping naked in hopes to alleviate his discomfort. It was in this state of undress that the poor girl first noted him, and she blushed beet red all the way to the roots of her blonde, braided hair. Noting the effect his undressed form had on the pretty lass, D'Avrille drew the bed linens up around his midriff.

"'Excuse me, Miss. I'm not yet used to your climate. It is too hot here for my blood," he drawled, all the while bestowing upon her his most charming smile.

If it had been possible for the girl to turn any redder, she would have done so, and quickly she averted her face. D'Avrille did not push too hard, he didn't want to scare her away. Yet he thought that maybe with a little finesse he could woo the girl into being some help to him.

"Would you mind throwing me my clothes on the chair there?" he asked softly.

She grabbed the clothes and held them out to him, still refusing to look at him. D'Avrille slid his hand gently and slowly over her wrist and fingers before taking the offered items. The girl shuddered visibly and flew to the door.

"Wait!" D'Avrille commanded.

The girl paused but continued to keep her eyes averted, saying nothing.

"Are you the one that brings my meals every morning?" Again his voice was soft and coaxing.

The girl nodded in answer.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Another blush and she was through the door in a flash. He smiled.

The castle gardens were lush and beautiful. And it was amongst the rosebushes and hedges that Princess Elsydae would wander, losing herself in both the greenery and in thought. Janessa found Syd there one quiet afternoon, absentmindedly picking flowers and placing them in a small basket that she had slipped over her arm. Janessa noted that a good half of the 'flowers' in the basket where nothing more than bare stems.

"It must be a strange world that you currently reside in, dear, that prefers empty twigs to Mother's lush roses," Janessa teased.

Syd smiled ruefully down at her odd handiwork.

"It would seem so."

"And has all your deep pondering brought you any solutions to our current dilemma?" Jane queried.

Syd sighed deeply. "No. Not as of yet. D'Avrille is more stubborn than I had thought possible. He has so far ignored every attempt I have made, and I am beginning to think that maybe I should just go up there and knock some sense into his fool head."

"I would think that that is what you would have done anyway, Syd. Why are you playing this game with him?"

"Because he expects one, Janessa. No matter what I do or how I approach him, he will think it is a trick. So, I am giving him what he expects. I'm attempting to soften him up through the only thing here that he has some affection for… his horse."

"I am sure his affections also extend to his men and Sir Bausch, Syd."

"I am sure they do, as well. But as they have all now sworn their fealty to you, what is there for him but anger and resentment where they are concerned? And truly, Janessa, if there is a chance that the gift has failed us, do we really want to bring D'Avrille in contact with his men?" Syd rationalized.

"No, no. You are right in that matter. But if what you say is true, Syd, than what could cause him more upset than for you to tame that savage beast of his?"

Syd laughed heartily. "He is a handful, isn't he? And my hope is that D'Avrille will be far more forgiving of a poor animal's turn in affection than that of his men."

Janessa squeezed her sister's arm lovingly. "Your reasoning seems sound, dear. Just please be careful. I have it on good authority that that horse is hell-spawned."

Syd looked at Janessa sharply. She felt an undercurrent of deeper meaning attached to the words "on good authority".

"On who's authority do you caution me?" she teased.

Janessa blushed prettily, but said nothing.

"And how does Sir Bausch find his new accommodations?" Syd pried.

"Oh, he likes them well enough. He is just…" Janessa trailed off, clucking her tongue in frustration. She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt so defensive of the time she had spent with Sir Bausch. Nothing improper had transpired, to be sure.

"Why, you sly fox. Under what guise have you been meeting with Sir Bausch."

Janessa answered with eyes averted. "I thought maybe he could give us some insight into Sir D'Avrille's resistance, that's all. And I've only met with him once, nothing more."

"Yes, well, he's obviously left a very strong impression on you, dear," Syd chided.

"He's a very kind man, if that's what you mean. But there is something about him that sets me on edge just a little. It is obvious that he is affected by the gift, Syd, but its different with him. Something is just not right."

"How so, dear?" Syd stiffened in expectation of bad news.

"The look in his eye is not the same as with the others. It is far more intense with him. And though he swore his undying devotion to me, he did not use the words fealty or allegiance. Just devotion." Janessa puzzled over the matter as she relayed it to her sister.

A knowing smile played on Syd's lips, yet she decided to hold her tongue… for now.

As the sisters turned their steps back toward the castle, a servant girl hurried toward them. Her blond braids bobbed as she dipped into a hurried curtsey.

"Your Grace, My Lady." she panted.

"Ilsa, what has you in such a lather?" Syd asked, startled at the usually placid girl's anxiety.

"A moment of your time please, My Lady," Ilsa begged Syd.

At Syd's nod, the girl leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

Emboldened by the girl's response, and frankly glad for a little human contact, D'Avrille awoke early the next morning alert and in fine spirits. He was anxious to see how far he could get with the girl this day, and it wasn't long before he could hear the turning of a key in the lock. Quickly, he lay back down, feigning sleep. The door swung open slowly and a bowed, yellow head passed through the open door. D'Avrille cracked an eye to inspect the girl at her tasks and find the right moment to 'awaken'.

And 'awaken' he did at the sight that greeted him. No young girl stood before him, but an old and stooped grandmother with a yellow scarf tied about her head. With a wink and a gapped tooth grin the old dame set his morning tray upon its usual table. Having completed her task, she shuffled toward him and held out a folded slip of white parchment. D'Avrille was too shocked to notice that the bed sheets had slipped from his body until he felt a sharp pinch on his hip. Humiliated, he pulled the sheets around his body and grabbed the paper from the old woman. It was his turn to be red faced, and he watched, cringing, as she shuffled out of the room, chuckling lowly to herself.

It wasn't until he heard the key turn once again in the lock that D'Avrille opened the note and read its contents.

"_Dear General D'Avrille,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. _

_My presence has been greatly needed at the stables of late, and my time has been taken up with appeasing the whims of a very impertinent and ill-humored stallion. Because of this, I ask you to forgive me for not visiting with you personally. Though I have been able to keep abreast of your progress from the servants who visit you daily. I have hand picked each one to assure you receive the best care possible while you reside with us here in Faraduen, and have instructed them not to disturb you in any way. _

_As a horseman it might interest you to know, Sir, that I have made admirable progress with the aforementioned stallion. I have found he is quite taken with lumps of sugar and am hoping to see how he likes apples later this week. If things keep on in this vein, I may be able to win him over by the end of this week. I look forward to this, as it will bring peace to our stables once again, and give me time to come and visit with you. I am anxious to learn what you think of our fair country._

_Until then, Sir, I wish you continued good health._

_Respectfully,_

_Princess Elsydae_

D'Avrille crumpled the letter into a tight ball and stormed to the window. His intention was to throw the offending note back at its authoress, but his actions were halted by the sight before him. There, in the paddock, grazing like a retired old work horse was Helios. The great beast's obvious content was disturbing to D'Avrille, but what added insult to injury was the fact that splayed upon the equine's back was Syd herself.

Lying with her feet on Helios' rump and her head on his neck, she was merrily sticking flowers in the thick braids she had plaited into his mane. D'Avrille was livid.

"Daisies? No, no, no, no, NOOOO! No Daisies! You do not put daisies in the mane of a war horse! Get… get off of him, you she-devil. What do you think you are doing?" he roared from his window.

With a lazy roll, Syd turned over and smiled up at the angry Knight.

"Why good morning, General. Did you sleep well? How was your breakfast?"

"Off, Imp! Off of him, NOW!" the man bellowed.

"General, braying like an ass will make one think you lack proper manners. Look, I have finally managed to make friends with this old man, and I dare say he is far less grouchy and lonely now that he spends some time with me each day. I empathize with his plight, you see. It must be very trying, being a stranger in a strange land."

D'Avrille took her meaning and knew that she was not speaking only of Helios.

"Well, the beast may be fickle but his master is not, I assure you," he growled.

"Fickle? It is all in the manner in which you look at it, Sir. I don't find this old boy fickle, rather I find that he has had a rough existence and is in want of a little affection and appreciation. Now its not that you, his former master, did not appreciate him or hold him in high regard, rather it is here in his new home he can be given the full measure of respect and attention as is due his station in life."

"Pretty words, Little One, but I have no use for them. And if Helios is so easily swayed by a bit of sugar and a fancy stall, than I am sorely disappointed and I have no use for him either. What honor does a man have when he can break off a sworn allegiance for nothing more than a comfortable bed and a bit of cheap conversation?"

Syd shook her head and slid from Helios' back. Taking his lead, she steered the horse back to the stables without another word or glance at D'Avrille. Finally she felt some satisfaction. Today she had pulled the great General into the paddock. Tomorrow she would start with the sugar.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Of all the things that existed in D'Avrille's room, he cursed the window the most. It called to him with a voice he could not resist. And how he wanted to resist. But the imp was down there, having her way with his horse, and after the daisy fiasco he had become desperate to know the extent of the havoc she was wreaking.

It all started simply enough. He, watching from next to the window, so as to see but not be seen. She, lazing about the paddock grass as Helios grazed near her, stopping for the occasional petting or proffered apple.

D'Avrille tried to keep a firm grip on his feelings of anger and insult, and he succeeded for an admirable amount of time. But he found that as of late his thoughts were taking a traitorous turn. Instead of dwelling on Helios' defection, he found himself wondering at Syd's penchant for wearing breeches and jerkins instead of dresses. Granted, her hair had grown some since that day on the field; small curls were beginning to twirl around her face and neck. He thought she looked more like a young boy than ever. A lazy young boy, lying in a field with his horse, hiding from his chores.

And then things got worse for him. Syd, obviously bored with reclining in the grass, brought with her, one morning, a saddle. D'Avrille stiffened at the implications. The girl was going to break her fool neck. Apples and sugar and constant petting were one thing, but trying to ride Helios was another matter entirely. From the day D'Avrille selected Helios from that spring's offering of foals, Helios had begun his training as the mount of a knight. No one had ever ridden him save D'Avrille, and he had been taught to discourage anyone else who would attempt it. And though Helios had allowed Syd to lounge on his bare back on a lazy afternoon, a saddle meant business and he would suffer no one's hand on the reins, save D'Avrille.

D'Avrille paced before his window, watching as Syd strolled confidently toward the large animal, arms unknowingly filled with the leathery means of her imminent death. For a moment, D'Avrille battled within himself. He should let her learn the hard way, even if it meant the end of her. Syd was the enemy, and if the powers that be in Faraduen ruled her death his doing, and if he was to die in this witch-blighted land, at least he would have taken Mordichan's most immediate threat with him.

But he could not. D'Avrille could not knowingly let the girl kill herself. It was a cowardly way to do business, and it was beneath his sense of honor. He kept telling himself that as he shouted out across the paddock… "Stop!"

Syd paused mid-swing, the saddle falling back to her side. She turned toward the sound of D'Avrille's voice and followed the castle's stone exterior with her eyes, up to the window from which protruded a thick and muscular arm.

"General. Good morning. I hope the day finds you well," Syd called out politely.

"It finds me more alive than you will be if you attempt to ride that horse."

"But, sir, he will grow fat from lack of exercise. And, frankly, I find the idea of riding this splendid horse a challenge I cannot resist," she rejoined.

"You ask for your own death!"

"That is very dramatic, sir. I was on his back just yesterday. Surely this gentle beast will not do me harm."

"You will get no farther than putting on the saddle. He will not let you sit in it," D'Avrille urged.

Syd shook her head at this nonsense. She had been on the horse's back, what difference could a saddle make? She turned back to her task.

D'Avrille felt a sense of helplessness against her stubborn notion.

"Fine then. Do as you wish, it is your neck to break. Don't say you haven't been warned, boy," he goaded, hoping to engage her anger and turn her from her intent.

"Boy? Do you still call me boy? I'll show you what this 'boy' can do," Syd spat. With a smooth sweep of her arms she dropped the saddle upon Helios' back and began to cinch up the girth. She keenly felt D'Avrille's challenge, as she was quite fed up with him calling her sex into question. It had taken all of her strength and many tears to shear her long honey colored tresses before the battle with Mordichan. Nevertheless, Syd felt it her duty to give her men a show of fidelity, knowing many would be opposed to being led by a woman. She had needed them to see she was deadly serious and committed to leading them to victory. To have this gesture mocked so openly and so continuously pricked her sense of pride, and for the moment overrode any wish she had to sway this insufferable man to the side of Faraduen.

D'Avrille rued his words, seeing that they had the opposite of their intended effect Her death would be on his head for certain if he allowed her to proceed.

"Wait! Stop! Don't do this. Or if you must do it, have your men bring me down there and let me help you."

"Oh, that's rich. I should trust you to 'help' _me_ with _your_ horse. Aye, _my_ neck will be broken for sure with _your_ 'help'," Syd's tone dripped sarcasm.

He thought quickly. "If you or your men suspect me of any questionable actions, then run me through on the spot."

The desperation of his plea seeped through the chinks in her anger. He sounded sincere, and she was letting her wounded feelings keep her from her ulterior motive. Swallowing her pride, she had to admit that it had been her intention all along to interact with him on this footing and gain his trust. To deny such an opportunity at this juncture, with it having practically fallen into her lap, would be more than foolish.

Syd spoke to one of the men at the fence, who in turn moved rapidly toward the castle. Within minutes D'Avrille was being chained and led down halls and corridors, through heavy, iron-bound oak doors to step out finally into the sun and fresh air. He breathed deeply and relished the openness of his new surroundings.

D'Avrille was brought to the fence by his guards, but allowed no further. He brought his chained arms up to rest on the top railing and looked across the paddock at the girl. She was even smaller than he remembered, almost delicate without her armor and in just breeches and a jerkin.

"Well, come on then. Educate me in the fine art of riding a war horse," Syd chided, putting aside her anger.

D'Avrille instructed her to approach Helios and place a hand on the horn of the saddle. Syd did as she was told, and was instantly met with the harsh sound of snapping teeth near her ear.

"Helios. Leave off!" D'Avrille shouted with force.

Syd turned toward the great beast's head, startled and surprised by the aggressiveness of his warning and the now intimidating look in his eye. Gone was the pleasant companion of many an afternoon. Syd realized that she had just been brought up short.

"Try again," D'Avrille urged.

Taking a steadying breath, Syd placed her hand again on the saddle's horn. She tensed in anticipation of a painful bite, but none came. Risking a quick sideways glance, she saw Helios watching her in controlled anger. It became apparent to her that she should rethink this whole tactic.

"Now, bring a foot toward the stirrup. But don't put it in. He will jump, and you'll lose a foot, or worse," D'Avrille continued.

Syd swallowed the lump of fear inhabiting her throat. Her mind flitted to Dougan and his words of warning before her skirmish with D'Avrille-_"One day this dangerous game will catch up with you…"_

"_Sweet Faydn, I pray today is not the day." Syd whispered as the few men watching from farther down the paddock railing mumbled to each other in low, worried voices._

Slowly she raised her knee, bringing her foot level with the stirrup. Helios jumped sideways and with deadly force he kicked out at her with his hind leg. He missed by a calculated hair's breadth. Syd paled and stumbled back, breathing deeply in a sad attempt to stave off a fainting spell.

D'Avrille attempted to jump the fence, shouting at Helios all the while. He was rewarded for his efforts by the drawing of swords by his guards. Yet D'Avrille was oblivious of the sharp metal pricking his neck. His only awareness was of the pallor of Syd's face.

"Are you unhurt? Did he catch you?" D'Avrille shouted.

"No, he missed," she squeaked, her body fully trembling.

"Shall we end this for the day then, Princess? I think the old brute's had enough," he coaxed, hoping that his small hint of deference would sooth her pride enough to allow her to bow out gracefully.

Syd nodded, unable to form words. Her whole body felt as though frozen in place, and it was an effort to connect thought with action. It did cross her mind that she should try to unsaddle Helios and lead him back to the barn, to show him that she was still the one in control. But she couldn't bring herself to perpetuate the lie. They both knew very well how things really stood.

Upon Syd's exit, D'Avrille was led back to his room and unchained. As the guards locked the door behind them, he sank into a chair to think. The opportunity for escape had finally presented itself. Surely, here was an angle he could work. If he could get close to the princess and gain her trust, maybe even get her to unchain him and let him into the pen with her, then he could jump on Helios and be gone before the soldiers knew what happened. Getting out of the main gates would prove difficult, but he was sure he could work that out over the next few days. His main set back would be how to get to Bausch. It was a possibility that D'Avrille would have to come back for Bausch later. Another flash of an idea crossed his mind, and he mulled it over for a time. One thing would grant him access to Bausch and the main gate, and that thing was a hostage. And what better hostage than… Syd.

Morning found them back in the paddock, much to D'Avrille's delight. Helios was ready and waiting, saddle still intact. And Syd, though somewhat paler and far less self-assured, relied on D'Avrille's wisdom and instruction as she entered the pen. By early afternoon they had made notable progress. Syd found herself able to touch the stirrup with her foot without any reaction from Helios. She also caught herself reveling in D'Avrille's sparse yet sincere praise. She felt so well, in fact, that she allowed D'Avrille, under heavy guard and drawn weapons, to lead the stallion back to the stable and unsaddle him.

Syd wondered at this and the fact that she had even approached that horse again, as she wandered alone through the gardens later that evening. It pleased her that D'Avrille was showing such an interest, and she hoped that his almost tolerable demeanor would continue. With the progress made this day, she felt sure that it would only be a matter of a small amount of time before she could safely broach the subject of his allegiance.

Sir Bausch was afforded an amazing amount of freedom during his captivity in Faraduen. He could wander the castle's common areas and grounds at will with only a single guard in attendance. His sleeping quarters were comfortable and well appointed, and he was allowed to dine in the royal banquet hall amongst the lesser nobles. On the whole he was quite pleased with things. If he had to be a prisoner, what more could one ask for?

Yet all of this paled when compared to the honor of being in the Queen's presence. And Janessa had found ample time and reason to spend in Bausch's company. Many were their walks in the castle's gardens, and Janessa would tell him of Faraduen's blessing and how it affected the land. Bausch felt himself tumbling head long into her idyllic and dreamy stories, and could not help but become caught up in the heady current of emotions she conveyed as she told them.

Janessa was very artful in her narration, and she could show him things as she saw them. She told him of the Queens before her, and specifically of her mother whose gift had been fertility. With a modest blush, Janessa talked of her four sisters and the rarity of so many daughters being born to a Queen. She also spoke of Elsydae and how never before had there been twins born to the royal family. What a shock it had been in the land, when not only were twin girls born, but that they were the first born of the Queen Mother. She hinted at the implications of such a miracle as being great, but did not elaborate on them. And then she would move on to speak of her people with much love, compassion and hope. The more Bausch listened, the more he found he was falling in love with this land and its people, which was a perfectly natural state of affairs as he had given his heart to their Queen not long ago.

"I am honored that you have shared so much with me, My Lady," Bausch spoke as they strolled one day in the garden.

Janessa pondered this for a moment. So deeply rooted was her faith in her "power" over him that she had probably told him too much. Yet there was much more she wished to share with this man, who had captured so much of her mind and lived so deeply in her private thoughts. But in this she held back. She was afraid that she had fallen too quickly for Bausch's charms, and did not trust her own feelings where he was concerned. Janessa had never known love before and feared she was loosing her head. More than anything she wanted him to love her in return, for who she was and not because of the gift.

"It has been my joy to share it with you, Sir Bausch. Your companionship has been a great comfort these past days," she returned softly.

Bausch was happy to find that she required his company more and more frequently of late. Her mind was troubled in the area of D'Avrille, and she sought his council on the matter. Bausch had much insight to give her on the subject of his friend. He told her of D'Avrille's love and pride for his country and his devout and loyal service to it. He also spoke of D'Avrille's dedication to his sworn oath as defender of the land. But his own revelations stopped here. So ingrained in his mind was the honor code of the Knights of Mordichan, that he could not help but keep to neutral topics whenever D'Avrille or his home country were discussed.

Janessa would listen in rapt attention to Sir Bausch, all the while searching for a reason behind D'Avrille's failure to respond to the gift. She would question Bausch on his own response to the gift, and he was glad at these times. It afforded an opportunity for him to tell her how he felt for her without overstepping any bounds of propriety. Though he was not sure that she grasped fully the implications of his words.

D'Avrille was not the only one on whom the gift had failed, though Bausch did not want to disturb her with this knowledge just yet. She held sway over his heart to be sure, but not because of some blessing of extreme beauty. Instead it was because of the beauty that lay within her soul.

Sadness would settle in Bausch's chest in the quiet and still times when he was alone after their talks. What good was it to love Janessa? Would she ever see that he loved her for herself? And what difference did it all make anyway? She was Queen, and he nothing more than a prisoner of war. And even if that was pushed aside, what hope had he that a Queen could return the love of a mere knight? And in his breast he berated himself for not feeling guiltier. He was ready to overturn a sworn oath to his King and Country for a woman, and it bothered him not one wit.

All he could care for was… Janessa.

Relief. The feeling washed over Griffin like a refreshing spring shower. Before him loomed the high towers of the castle of Mordichan. He had made it at last.

Upon entering the castle gates, Griffin dismounted Wolfs' Bane in the courtyard. Time was of the essence and he was already several days behind schedule. His normal course of action would be to report to the Knight's Guild and then feed and bed his horse down in the Guild stables. But the urgency of his mission could not be ignored. He quickly passed his tired horse off to a castle stable boy with an apologetic pat and promises of better treatment later, and headed directly to Lord Whitehall's Privy Chamber.

Whitehall was in a dark humor when a rap at his chamber door interrupted his thoughts. It had been three weeks and he had received no news from the battlefront. The agony of ignorance was burning a hole in his stomach as he reached for the goblet on the table next to him. The apothecary had prescribed powders to be taken with fresh water to alleviate the pain, but as of yet they had no effect. His stomach was souring on the rot in his mind. He turned an ill-humored eye toward Younge, who sat further down the table pouring over the treasury accounts.

"Enter," he bellowed at the intrusive knock.

A castle guard bowed low before the Regent and announced Sir Augustus Griffin. Whitehall was poised to dismiss the man unseen, not wishing to be bothered by some overachieving man-at-arms here only to give the daily prisoner report. But Whitehall's dismissal was cut off abruptly by the man's hasty entrance. Whitehall sat bolt upright in his chair, his attention caught immediately by the travel weary, dusty appearance of the man. Maybe this Griffin brought the news he sought.

"My Liege. I have come directly from the field of battle in Faraduen…" Griffin began.

"Yes, yes! Good. What news have you?" Whitehall shifted in his seat with anticipation. From the mournful look of the young man he felt certain of news in his favor.

"My Lord, the enemy amassed an army beyond our capabilities. General D'Avrille led us all in a brilliant effort, but we were overtaken by their vast numbers. I was barely able to escape with the news. All have been taken prisoner…"

"Prisoners," Whitehall interjected. "Some yet live? What of D'Avrille? Did he survive?" Whitehall's face was taught with suppressed anger. A dark look passed between Whitehall and Younge, who had risen from his seat to stand at Whitehall's right hand.

Griffin was taken aback. That Whitehall was shocked by their loss did not alarm him, but that he seemed disturbed that D'Avrille might be alive was disconcerting. Surely Griffin misread the man.

"Yes, My Lord. He and Bausch and several other Knights have been taken prisoner. I did not see or hear where they were to be taken, or what fate would befall them. I took advantage of my freedom and the enemy's momentary distraction to make haste here with the news. My Lord, with a letter from you and a small army, we may be able to secure the release of the General and the other Knights."

Whitehall fell silently back into his chair, seeming for all the world to be contemplating things calmly, though the news raged through him like a wildfire. _He lives! _What steps would Faraduen take now? Would their Queen try to use D'Avrille as a bargaining chip, to sue for peace? Or would she just order his death? How could he be certain? No one knew what that wicked bunch of women would do. Grimly, he cast his eyes at Younge, both knowing that a private discussion on the subject was in order.

Whitehall then shifted his gaze to Griffin as a thought passed through his head. Whitehall had no intention of rescuing D'Avrille. That much was certain. And to let this lad out of here with the knowledge of D'Avrille's whereabouts was dangerous. Being of the same mind, Younge leaned to whisper into Whitehall's ear. With a nod and a look, Younge passed out of the room, closing the doors behind him.

"You say you are the only one to return from the battle field, Griffin?" Whitehall rose from his seat and approached Griffin slowly, assuming as nonchalant an attitude as he could muster.

In the back of Griffin's mind, a small warning bell began to ring.

"Yes, My Lord."

"And did you happen to relate your story to anyone else but me?" Whitehall pressed.

The ringing became a cacophony of noise in his mind.

"No, My Lord. I came here directly."

"Well then, Griffin. I commend you on your bravery and forethought, and I wish to reward you for your loyal service. Guards!" Whitehall bellowed.

With a rush of sound, the doors were thrown open and several guards, with swords drawn, entered the room. Griffin watched, aghast and helpless, as he was surrounded.

"But, My Lord…" he choked.

Whitehall said nothing, but smirked as Griffin was dragged bodily from the chamber. As silence settled once again on the room, Younge returned and resumed his seat at the table.

"So, he lives," Whitehall spat.

"For now, My Lord. For now," Younge concurred. "And besides, that witch of a Queen may do our work for us. Let us just give it a little time."

"How long do you think I will wait, Younge? I'm ready for an end to all this. I cannot enjoy my success with this boil festering in the back of my mind. He must die!"

"And so he will, My Lord. But it is my wish, Sire, for it to happen in such a way as not to besmirch your name," Younge cajoled.

With an angry growl, Whitehall threw himself back into his chair and drank deeply from the goblet. Yet nothing could put out the fire in his belly.


	9. Chapter 9

Word of Syd's interaction with General D'Avrille reached the ears of the Queen's Council, causing a general ruckus. Several of the graybeards were pleased that Janessa was finally exerting her authority and no longer using Elsydae as a crutch. To them, as long as Syd was finding occupation elsewhere, they were content to turn a blind eye.

But there was another faction- a secretive and, for the moment, silent group. They felt that there every move that Elsydae made was calculated and ripe with some ulterior motive. If one delved further into their beliefs one would find they harbored harsher judgments than this where the Queen's twin was concerned. In dark corners and quiet shadows, these aged men whispered hard words like _abomination, usurper, threat_. Long harbored resentments filled these men- resentments that had been born on the same day as the twins.

It had been with great joy and nearly uncontrollable anticipation that Dougan had sat outside his wife's confinement chamber. Doctors and nurses ran in and out amidst the laboring Queen's cries and demands. His daughter, his firstborn and the heir to the throne, was on the cusp, the very threshold of life. Dougan's imagination soared with the possibilities. And there it was, the tiny cry, the symbol of all things new and good. With a great leap he rose from his seat. He was more than ready to enter the chamber and embrace this wonderful new soul when a collective gasp from behind the door stilled his hand. It was a momentary effect, as he found his wits and opened the door, his heart skipping a beat with fear. What was amiss with his child that would cause such a reaction?

The sight that met his eye upon his hurried entrance caused him several minutes of confusion. For in one nursemaid's arms was a swaddled bundle of pink, but all eyes were turned in shocked amazement toward the delivering doctor. There in his hands was another pink form that was wriggling and crying in offense. The word _two_ flashed through every mind in the room. _ Two_, thought the doctors and nurses in amazement of the rarity of such a feat. _Two, _thought Queen Farrah, finally feeling some vindication at the lack of sympathy she had garnered from her months of complaints of extra arms and legs kicking at her insides. _Two_, thought Dougan as he approached his offspring, his heart swelling with paternal love and awe.

With a gentle finger he touched the face of the first, who had fallen fast asleep in the nurse's arms, a soft gurgling escaping her sweet lips. Then he approached the second as she was being wrapped in silken blankets by another nurse. As Dougan raised his finger to touch her cheek, she grabbed it and looked him in the eye. _A strong gaze and a firm grip,_ he thought as he stared in wonder at her tiny face. It was then and there that Dougan knew- _she was special this one_- and he would move heaven and earth for her.

Sadly, not everyone saw things as Dougan did. And for the first few weeks of little Elsydae's life she was hidden away. Important decisions had to be made and council sought about the matter of her existence. Murmuring and rumors flew about the land, as the people awaited the usual proclamation of the birth of the new heir. Word had spread that the Queen had been in the throes of labor, but as days became weeks the people had begun to despair of a tragedy.

It had taken a great effort to keep the truth of the birth of twins silent. Queen Farrah was a proficient gossip and had chosen her ladies in waiting for their particular talents in learning the juiciest and most scandalous of tidbits. Those very ladies could now be found cowering in fear in their chambers under threat of losing their tongues if they spoke a word of the royal birth.

And why all this secrecy? Because no one knew what the long term repercussions would be of twin heirs. Never before had twins been born to a Queen. Would the first born be given the gift, or would the second? Would both be given the gift? And if not, would the one without the gift seek to overthrow the one with it?

During this time, as the aged men of knowledge argued behind closed doors on the future of the throne of Faraduen, Queen Farrah sought assistance from Faydn herself. With Dougan's help, she brought both babies to the temple and locked the doors behind her. Placing each bundled babe upon the pedestal of the revered statue of Faydn, Queen Farrah knelt before her goddess.

"Oh, dearest Faydn, I humbly bow before you in supplication…" Farrah began dramatically.

A soft, low chuckle could be heard above her and Farrah looked up. The wispy shape of Faydn was seated firmly between the babies, a hand gently stroking each downy head.

"You are putting it on a bit thick today, dear. Might you be showing off for your husband?" The voice of the goddess tinkled with mirth.

Farrah sputtered, embarrassed by the reprimand.

"Be at ease, dear," Faydn soothed, "I am teasing you. Though I cannot fathom how you could be so easily upset with such joy as this to sustain you." In quiet bliss, the goddess cooed love words to the small infants.

"Upset! Upset? How could I _not_ be with this amazing pickle you've gotten me into! Just look, Faydn. Two! You must know what an uproar you have set those old graybeards into with this great joke. Some gift you gave me," Farrah ranted, her voice rising in agitation.

The mist-like matter that made up the form of the goddess grew dark like a thundercloud. The babies began to wriggle and fuss in response to the change in atmosphere.

"Mine is the only way, Farrah. Remind those old fools of that. And remind them, too, that it was not I who gave them authority in my land. It was your father, trying to grasp some of the power of the throne for himself. My patience is wearing thin with those manipulators. Tell them so."

"Yes, Faydn," Queen Farrah bowed, humbled earnestly in the presence of the goddess' anger.

But that anger was short lived, as Faydn realized the distress she was causing the little ones. Again she threw herself into the task of admiring the little bundles of plump, pink sweetness.

"Faydn," Farrah ventured after a moment. "Truly, what am I to do? What am I to say to the council and the people about the babies? Surely you know the questions that will be asked."

Though she loved her people, Faydn grew tired of their fickle, finite minds. And Queen Farrah was a trial on a good day, to be sure. So, with the firm, patient voice of a scolding mother she brought Farrah into check.

"Child, I have given you the blessing and the authority to rule my land. Do it! What I choose to do with these two, what gifts I choose to give or not give are _my _decision to make. Do you question me?"

"No, my goddess!" Farrah gasped.

"Then go tell those stodgy old goats to keep their mouths shut and be happy for the birth of not one, but two beautiful daughters. I did give you the gift of fertility, did I not?" And with a wink Faydn kissed the Queen's cheek, calming her inner turmoil.

"Go on, dear, and do your duty. But leave these little ones with me a moment longer. Dougan will bring them to you when I am done."

With a deep curtsy, Farrah floated out of temple with a sense of purpose.

Slowly Faydn's form swirled and flowed around the babes, twinkling and glowing and causing their little eyes to grow wide in wonder. The form of a hand paused upon the cheek of the eldest, who looked into the holy mist with adoration. Then the action was repeated upon the cheek of the second born. With an unusual quickness, a little hand reached out to grab at the shifting mist. Intrigued, Faydn passed her hand back and forth before the babe's eyes, watching as the small eyes tracked the movement.

"Dougan," Faydn called as she again took a more human form, "I must speak to you."

Dougan stepped forward. "Aye, Faydn?"

"I love Farrah. She's a good sort of woman. But she has no sense whatsoever. So I am going to tell _you_ this, so you will ensure my will is done. Listen carefully. This one," Faydn touched the head of the firstborn child, "will be a good and wise Queen. It will be hard for her at first, but she will rise to the task and bring Faraduen to a state of unequaled happiness. She is for Faraduen.

"But _this_ one," Faydn touched the head of the second born child, "is for me. She's strong and feisty. I like her very much. And I will have a special purpose for her. Watch her for me, Dougan, and let her pursue her natural talents. Let us see where they take her. Do not hold her back because of her sex."

"Aye, Faydn. You have my word," Dougan swore with all seriousness.

"And Dougan, no one else need know our little secret. It would do well for those who look to stir up trouble to think that she shares in the Queen's Gift. Do you agree?"

"I do. I see the wisdom of it. But, Faydn… do you mean to take her from me?" Dougan struggled with the idea.

"Oh, Dougan… no. At least not in the way you think, dear. Be at ease and trust me."

"I'll do as you say," Dougan promised.

"Good! Then take your precious offspring and present them to their people. I think they've waited long enough." And with that she was gone.

It had all come together quite naturally in the end. The people became enchanted with the babes, after the initial shock of the news of twins wore off. As time passed on, several of the graybeards became more accepting of Elsydae.

But there were those who did not. Slowly and quietly, as the years progressed, these men whispered in the ears of others in the court who seemed less than pleased with the ruling family of Faraduen. Dark whisperings could be heard in the quiets halls where dissenters would meet to exchange ideas. All of them had come to agree- Faraduen could not be ruled by two Queens. Such a thing had never been heard of. Maybe it was time now to place more of the burden of power upon the council, before any disputes could arise upon the girls' eighteenth birthday. After all, wasn't Farrah proof enough that the position of Queen had become nothing more than that of a figurehead?

Slowly these men's poison seeped into the land, and the people began to become uneasy. They began to have doubts about the princess' and their impending rule. Maybe twins was not such a blessing in the end. Yet the fertile lands and abundant harvests the people received each year due to Farrah's gift kept their grumblings to a minimum.

Unknowing of all this, Dougan found that keeping his promise to Faydn was easier than he had expected. As Elsydae grew, it became apparent that she possessed an admirable amount of coordination and she took to physical activities with a quickness unseen in most. But as Dougan watched her development, he noted that her success in the study of combat and war was not wholly due to her ability to swing a weapon correctly on the first try. It was due more to the fact that she possessed a quicker mind.

Farrah had registered her complaints loudly about the fact that Elsydae spent all her free time in the stables and barracks as a young girl. She was constantly at her father's side, watching and learning. From horses to halberds, there was nothing she didn't inquire after or try out for herself. And Dougan gave her full access, quelling her mother's complaints with a firm "Hush, woman."

When Elsydae had reached a full ten years old, Dougan allowed her to progress from sparring matches with him to matches with the younger and greener soldiers of the barracks. He found great joy in watching her best them. Rare was it for any of them to get more than a single hit on her, as she would watch them carefully and learn their weaknesses straight away. Dougan had acquainted her with this technique early on, knowing that her size and stature would always be a drawback against any well-seasoned male opponent.

It soon became local gossip about the young princess' skills. And the people began to hope and fear all at once. Many were of the mind that with such an obvious skill, Elsydae would be the one blessed, thus encouraging them that whatever trouble may come their way they would be well prepared and protected by such an amazing gift. Their fears arose as they pondered this on a deeper level, wondering what grave threat would be in their future that they would need such protection.

On the eve of the girls' eighteenth birthday, they were sequestered in the temple alone, with twenty of Faraduen's finest soldiers guarding the outside of the building against any possible attack. In had walked the two maidens, both with hair the color of honey, each with faces fresh and fair and full of hope. And there they had stayed the traditional period of time: a night, a day, and another night. Upon the second morn, the two maidens had emerged. Elsydae was first to exit, and the crowd hovering outside the ring of soldiers looked at her intently for a sign of the gift.

She made no indications. Instead she turned and faced the temple doors, waiting and watching as if one of the crowd.

A gasp had gone up amongst the assembly as Janessa passed through the doors and as one they had dropped to their knees. As Janessa neared, Elsydae's voice could be heard proud and strong.

"My Queen!"

With those words, Elsydae had acknowledged that she had no claim on the throne. And with one swift blow the years of carefully cultivated rebellion had been squashed. The people of Faraduen were finally at ease. And with this ease came a wish by all for life to flow smoothly and peacefully as it had always done. The general populace put aside any questions about Elsydae or her possession of a gift. They all assumed that she did, because it was the path of least resistance. For surely she must possess a gift that would accompany the powers of the Queen, it only made sense with them being twins and all. Did it not?

Within the first weeks of Janessa's ascension it became clear that Elsydae's place was at the head of the army. Just as naturally, it became clear that her father would be her second in command. A situation Dougan engineered for himself, being driven by a need to protect her against all manner of enemies, both foreign and domestic.

And all would have gone well from there, if Janessa had not relied as heavily on Elsydae's strength and confidence in the council room as she did on the field of battle. This one failing of the new Queen brought the animosity of those old graybeards who had so recently been thwarted. And this animosity grew unchecked to present day. And knowing that a half truth was a very difficult thing to fight against, Elsydae's opposition sought every opportunity to cast aspersions on her character.

"Your Majesty, how long do we mean to keep the prisoner D'Avrille in our midst? Is it not obvious that he will never succumb to the gift? For if it were to be, it would have already been so," one elder proclaimed as the council convened again in the Queen's Privy Chamber.

"Do you still beat that old drum, Namore? The Queen has said once, if not a thousand times, to leave it in the hands of Princess Elsydae," another elder spoke from across the wide expanse of the oaken table.

"Aye, Fairhaven, that she has. No disrespect to your Majesty, but the Princess is young and though her… skills are exceedingly… great, this man has many more years experience. How long will we leave our _dear Princess _exposed to this enemy's manipulations? And under what guidelines, what proofs shall we have that the man has actually pledged his allegiance to our Crown? He may very well pull the wool over all of our eyes, if we are not diligent. I say we give him no more chances. He will never be a reliable asset to us. And no word of a trade, no request for release has come from Mordichan regarding him," Namore pressed on to the call of "Hear, Hear" from his compatriots.

"Namore, you are too hasty. What greater asset could be found than a man of his caliber to ride amongst our armies? I say give the Princess time. She is more than able to complete the task and I am sure she will leave us with no doubt as to the man's sworn allegiance when she is done," Fairhaven spoke on. A smattering of support issued forth with his words, but it was small and hardly enthusiastic.

"Dear sirs, please. I will have no more of this argument. I say we wait, and we will wait. My sister reports to me daily, and I am assured that she will meet with success," Janessa spoke out, silencing the grumblings and murmurings around her.

"Your word is law, My Queen," Namore spoke again, "but please, ponder this a moment. What if it is indeed the prisoner who controls the reins of this endeavor and not our dear Princess? He may be leading us all around by the nose, and we have a responsibility to protect Princess Elsydae as well as our people."

"Namore, I have said all I intend to say on this matter. The decision has been made, things will progress as they are," Janessa's words came out with a forcefulness she did not feel in the face of such persistent opposition.

"You are of course correct, Majesty. But pray, one more thing. The people- we must give them some sign of comfort that all will be well in this matter. They are not privy to our discussions, but only know that the man has not been turned. Could we not give them some word as to when there will be a resolution? Surely we could all agree on a timeline that will answer their fears as well as ours." Still Namore pushed his point, hoping to drive it home.

Janessa paused, caught for a moment in his trap. She did have a responsibility to the people.

"I will set no strict deadline, Namore. This business will not be rushed, and I will not force Elsydae's hand or this endeavor will go awry, most assuredly. Instead, I will speak once more to Captain Bausch and learn what I can of General D'Avrille from him. Then I will confer with my sister on the issue, after which I will be better able to inform you and the people of Faraduen as to our success in this matter," Janessa stated firmly.

Namore saw that he could push the issue no further. And though things were not settled to his liking, he knew he must retreat now or bring disfavor upon his head. So he conceded the point with a courtly bow to his Queen. The problem was out of his hands- for now.

Janessa made good on her word to speak with Captain Bausch. But knowing that this would be of great import, not only to the council but the land of Faraduen as well, she set up the meeting through more formal and official channels. Bausch was brought to the gardens under the watchful eye of Dougan, and Bausch sensed the difference in Janessa's demeanor immediately. This was not their normal stroll amongst the roses.

"My men are treating you kindly, I hope, Sir Bausch," Janessa asked with a strange formality.

"Yes, Your Grace. I have been treated exceedingly well," Bausch replied, slightly on edge.

"Good. Do you have need of anything, Sir?"

"No, Your Grace."

Janessa paused, thinking of how to begin what she needed to say. She stopped her progress and turned to him, intending to speak with him earnestly. She sought out his gaze, but at the point their eyes met he fell again to his knees before her. Janessa sighed deeply, wishing just once she could speak to someone and have their full attention on her words and not her… gift.

"Sir Bausch, I need to speak to you sincerely. I am at a loss as to the recalcitrance of your friend, General D'Avrille. He refuses to swear his fealty to me. And as long as Mordichan seeks to throw soldiers at our borders for no well-defined reason, I cannot have such a one as General D'Avrille here and alive. I cannot risk the chance that he get free and cause a rebellion or escape back to Mordichan and lead more men against me.

"But I do not wish his death, Sir Bausch. My dungeons are empty, sir, for good reason. So my question to you is: do you swear your fealty to me? Or are you of the same mind as your friend?"

Bausch raised his eyes to her, sadness behind them. "No, Your Grace. I cannot swear to you my fealty. I would be foresworn to do so. My allegiance is with Mordichan, and with D'Avrille specifically. What kind of man would I be, how could I be trusted if I were to serve two opposing kingdoms?"

Janessa paused, confused by the difference in his words and the fact that he was kneeling before her. "But, Sir! You kneel before me. Your countryman would not do so, claiming I was not his Queen. And here you kneel before me, but claim I am not your Queen. Forgive me my confusion."

"Your Grace, I kneel before you because I am not in control of my heart."

"So, the gift affects you, but not fully."

"No, Lady. _You_ affect me, not your gift."

Janessa gasped as a greater influx of confusion swept her face.

"Your beauty is great, to be sure, My Lady. But in your eyes there is such a kindness… a gentleness. You move with grace and speak with sweetness. I am affected, my Lady, indeed. But unlike those who lose their will to your gift, I have lost my heart to you- yourself."

Janessa blinked in astonishment. Thoughts of Syd, D'Avrille, even Faraduen itself were pushed from her mind. Here, finally, were the words she had always longed to hear. And she was momentarily nothing more than a young lady, standing before a man she could love and who would love her in return. Yet in flash it was gone, and the weight of all he had said crashed upon her. He loved her, and he would not swear his allegiance. She felt that she loved him as well, but with this new revelation she would surely be called to put him to death as well.

"I… I," she started but never finished. In a fluster, She took to her heels and fled in a most undignified manner. Swift as a rabbit she ran right for the temple where she knew she would find the wisdom she desperately needed.

D'Avrille watched idly from his window, caught up in thoughts of timing, escape, freedom. His mind was pleasantly engaged in this manner when a flash of color in the distance caught his eye. There, as best he could make out, was none other than the Queen running as if for her life. He perked up instantly, every nerve ending in his body screaming to be alert, to be ready- this could be the hour of his deliverance.

He followed the Queen's form to the stone building beyond the stables. He had never paid it much mind before, as nothing of any import seemed to happen there and his attentions were generally engaged in activities closer to his present location. Here ran Janessa, and just as she reached the entrance another form exited. This form he recognized as that of Syd, and he watched as the Queen of Faraduen clung and shook against the frame of her sister.

D'Avrille craned his neck to peer through the window, in search of someone or something that might have been in pursuit of the Queen. Seeing nothing, and finding no guards coming in haste to the Queen's defense he turned his attentions back to the intimate moment playing out before him.

As he watched, D'Avrille strove to make sense of what he saw, for if he did not know better it appeared in that moment that the Queen and her sister had traded places. For there Syd seemed to stand before him in regal solemnity, comforting the beloved form of her loyal subject. And just as quickly as the image presented itself it was gone, both women having removed to the interior of the building.

Yet the thought clung to him until he and Syd met again upon the 'field of battle'.


	10. Chapter 10

-1Chapter 10

A flurry of goose feathers and silks swirled about the room, caught in the strong currents of air generated by the furious movements of Lord Whitehall. Lost in the grip of rage, he stormed around the room. Pillows were rent to shreds, clothing was thrown from closets and drawers, tables were overturned until his series of chambers resembled a battle field.

"Can't find it!" Whitehall growled under his breath, "Where is it? Where did it go?"

Having upturned every inch of his rooms and not found the thing he sought, Whitehall threw open his doors and called for his guards, ordering them to bring in Lord Younge. They beat a hasty retreat and in moments returned with the requested personage in tow.

"My Lord," Younge bowed dutifully before the regent.

"Get in here," Whitehall barked as he pulled the surprised man into the destroyed room and locked the door behind them. Taking a moment to peer through the key hole to assure himself that no one was peering back, Whitehall dragged Younge further into the room.

"Its gone! I cannot find it anywhere," he hissed.

"What is gone, my Lord?" Younge asked in confusion.

Nearly senseless with anger and suspicion, Whitehall's eyes cut around the room as if seeking out a would-be spy.

"The letter," he confessed in a rough whisper. "The letter, Younge. Gone!"

Younge jerked in surprise, the implications falling heavily upon him. "Surely, it must be here, somewhere. I…"

"Look about you!" Whitehall cut him off with a roar, before his voice dropped once more into a harsh, secretive whisper. "There is nothing here that I have not searched through. Nothing!"

Younge was struck dumb and immobile. The loss of a document so damning to their cause was heart stopping. A sick sort of fear crept through him as his mind jumped from possibility to possibility. Who could have it? Who could know their secret?

Whitehall's voice, reduced to an animalistic growl by the strength of his anger and distress, cut through Younge's trance. A litany of names was tossed between them, each pondered as a possible suspect but soon discarded. No one seemed credible as a prime suspect. Feeling the pressure of wasted time, Whitehall turned an accusatory look upon Younge.

"Now, finally, you will agree with me that some finite solution needs to be meted out?"

"Yes, My Lord. I will go immediately to the scrying chamber and send a message to San Saharia. Krys Belora has already offered you his services. But, My Lord, you must know that help from him or his people comes at a heavy price?"

"What price can I not pay when I am undisputed king of Mordichan, Younge? Krys Belora has all the powers of the dark arts at his disposal. With his assistance, our victory is assured. And with his allegiance, my rule will be secured. Let him ask whatever he wants."

"I can only hope you are correct, Lord Whitehall. For your sake as well as mine."

Younge bowed deeply to his liege and left, his legs taking him on a journey his mind had no wish to follow.

Sir Porter stood in the stables for some time, stationed before the stall of a large black horse. Beside him was the boy who had bedded the horse down several days before.

"He handed you the horse and left? No message, no instructions?" he asked the boy for the third time.

"No, Sir. Its like I told ye. He just handed me the reins and left."

Sir Porter shook his head in amazement. None of this was adding up. Augustus Griffin, fresh from the field of battle, had been in Mordichan for the better part of a week and had not only failed to report to the Knights Guild but had left the care of his horse to another. These were not the actions of the man he had come to think of as a son. Something was amiss, and he meant to get to the bottom of it.

Sir Porter dismissed the boy and turned to leave the stables. Immersed in thought, he was startled when a bent form slunk from the shadows that hovered near the stable doors. Bowed at the waist in extravagant humility, Poore Collins presented himself before the venerated knight.

"My dear Sir Porter! If I may have but a moment of your time. I have come in great haste with a request from my most honorable and gracious patroness. Her Ladyship Catherine Bellingham wishes to meet with you on the most urgent of business. May I have the pleasure of escorting you to her presence immediately?"

Sir Porter grimaced. Lady Catherine was a demanding old bird on a good day, constantly petitioning the Knights Guild for contributions to her library. Though he was sensible of the benefit of higher learning and the need for preserving the past, he was in no mood for her trivial distractions at the moment.

"Collins, I am not at leisure today. Tell Her Ladyship to go annoy someone else," Sir Porter snapped as he pushed past the man.

Poore Collins, desperate to complete his assigned task and anxious to never bring Her Ladyship's displeasure upon his head, unthinkingly reached out to stop the great man.

For a heartbeat the lackey and the knight stood in suspended animation. Each was looking at the offending hand of the lesser upon the arm of the greater, until Sir Porter's astonishment boiled into something more acidic.

"Remove your hand from my arm, Sir, or I shall be forced to remove it from yours."

Snatching back the errant appendage, Poore Collins bowed and scraped at impossibly low levels and stammered his apologies with earnest exuberance. In the face of such utter artlessness, Sir Porter could not hold the error against the man. Rolling his eyes, he once again made moves to exit the scene only to be stopped by the wretched man's plaintive cries.

"Sir Porter, I beseech you! It is a matter of the utmost importance. One that involves a knight of you acquaintance. Please, Sir!"

His attention now fully engaged, Sir Porter looked closely at the man. Could it be Lady Catherine had knowledge of his missing knight? Or was this another ruse to try to extract funds from the Guild's treasury?

"Which knight would we be talking about, Collins?" Sir Porter probed.

Poore Collins winced and frowned. "I am sorry to impart that I am not at liberty to share such important information in as open and public an area as we now find ourselves, Sir. But, please, I'll be very happy to escort you to Her Ladyship at once. She will have the answers to your questions."

Sir Porter locked his eyes upon those of the other man and held him there, trapped, in his searching gaze. As hard as he looked, Porter could find no dishonesty or manipulation there.

"Then lead on. Best not keep the old girl waiting."

If Sir Porter had any doubts as to the authenticity of this requested meeting, they were soon laid to rest as Poore Collins did not lead him to the Great Library. Instead they made a meandering and circuitous route through the oppressive din, flamboyant colors, and overpowering smells of the open market area and past the imposing and heavily guarded warehouses of the Merchants Guild. They stopped before one particularly grand stone edifice owned by the Bellingham family. Passing the heavy guard, Poore Collins lead the now very curious Knight into the fortress. Deeper they walked, through towers of stacked goods until they reached a large room sealed by an iron bound door. Collins tapped out a brusque tattoo upon the door and it was opened immediately by a well armed guard.

"Sir Porter, come in," Lady Catherine directed from behind a large wooden desk that dominated the room.

Sir Porter entered and was taken at once by the strangeness of his surroundings. Decorum was the only thing holding him back from touching the walls to verify they were lined with sheets of metal. His attention was drawn to the large rounded heads of rivets running from floor to ceiling along the seams where the sheets of metal joined. Up and up his eyes wandered until they laid rest upon the ceiling. It, too, seemed to be covered in metal.

"Yes, it is as it seems," the great lady intoned as she watched the look of amazement pass over the aged Knight's face.

"But for what reason," he queried.

"So that no one else is party to our conversation, Sir Porter," she answered with a meaningful glance to Poore Collins and the guard. Both men bowed and exited quietly.

"Surely you didn't go to all this trouble for a small conversation between old friends, Cat," Sir Porter chided.

"No, Josias. This is just one of many such meetings I have held here that have required a measure of secrecy. You see, there is not much that goes on in Mordichan that I do not know. And before you start inquiring into my private affairs, let me direct you to the reason I brought you here."

Lady Catherine carefully slid a parchment across the expanse of desk.

"You may wish to make use of the chair behind you before you read that," she suggested.

Sir Porter did as she suggested. He had known Lady Catherine Bellingham more years than he was wont to acknowledge openly, and never had she been prone to dramatics or exaggerations.

With care and wonder, he took up the parchment and began to read. After rapidly scanning two lines of the carefully crafted script, he was thankful for the seat beneath him.

"You are certain of the authenticity of this," he voiced in a murmur as he reached the signature at the end of the page.

"I know it to be the very truth," she confirmed.

"Then this may explain my missing Knight."

"You will find your errant man in chains, two floors under the throne room," Lady Catherine's voiced weighed heavy with meaning.

"I am not one to become involved in the minor issues of the throne, Josias," she continued before he could speak. "Whom the regent chooses to imprison is of no consequence to me, as he exercises that particular right most liberally. But your man could be of use to you, and through you- to me. You must get him out and bring him back. And by him, you know that I do not mean Sir Griffin."

Sir Porter nodded in understanding. There was no need for Lady Catherine to urge secrecy in this matter. He was an intelligent man and she had no wish to offend him. Nothing more was said between the two as he rose to leave. A heavy burden had just been laid upon him and all whom he brought into this grand scheme. And it would all start with Griffin.

"No, no, no! Watch your elbow, keep it in. Don't flap it around like a chicken's wing or he will surely take a bite of your arm. Your knee, Syd! Mind your knee!" D'Avrille shouted directions at the flustered girl. She was beginning to wonder what was worse, her growing fear of Helios or her agitation at D'Avrille's endless stream of commands.

"Would you mind giving me a moment to think, General," she yelled. Now angry and irritated beyond rational thought, Syd pulled herself up into the saddle in one swift motion. In another swift movement not her own, she found herself toppled backward from her perch and in possession of a close up view of the bottom of Helios' rear hoof. Drawn dangerously high, his hoof hovered over her head which now rested firmly and dazedly on the ground.

No force known to man could have stopped D'Avrille's forward motion. Despite his chains he flew over the railing, the guards momentarily stunned by his speed. At a full run he collided with Helios' ribcage, throwing the great steed off balance and removing Syd from harm's way. The next moment found D'Avrille with his arms around her, dragging her an even further distance from the possibility of flying hooves. Slumping to the ground, D'Avrille enclosed the frightened girl who was now curled in a ball, in the folds of his arms. Helios glared at the man indignantly, furious to have been so abused. Unable to bring himself to avenge his wrongs upon his master, he instead screamed loudly and snapped his teeth at the guards who had finally come to their senses and were trying to scrabble over the fence.

"Are you unhurt?" he asked, never taking his eyes off the angry horse.

"Yes, I'll be fine," she replied though her voice shook.

"Can we now put an end to these antics, Little One? I don't believe that Helios will be brought around. He is too well trained, and its not worth your life to try to prove differently."

"Yes," she conceded, "I can see your point. I am beginning to wonder what crazed imp possessed me to think I should even try," she laughed, trying to push aside her fear.

It was then, in her brief moment of outward weakness, that D'Avrillle knew he would have no better opportunity. The guards were distracted and held at bay, and he was here alone with his only conceivable means of escape. His jaw clenched, his hands balled, his breath quickened until he nearly trembled in anticipation.

"That was not the only foolish thing you did today," his voice dropped low as his hands slid higher, bringing his chains nearer to her unprotected neck.

Sensing a change in him, Syd looked up into his face. So close to him now that she could see the very striations of color in his eyes, she knew his intentions.

"Surely, after all we have been through, General, you do not think me such a fool," she sneered, disappointed deeply by how little ground she now saw she had gained with him.

D'Avrille twitched as he felt a sharp prick on his inner thigh. He ventured a careful glance down, only to find a wicked dagger held firmly in her grasp and pointed strategically near his groin.

"Do you think I would not give those up to be free from here?" he leaned forward a fraction more to whisper against her ear.

Syd drew back and locked eyes with him.

"Would you give your life?" she asked as she inched the blade a little higher. "For here lies a lifeline, and if I were to cut it you would never see Mordichan again."

"And what good is your little bit of metal when I have snapped your neck," he threatened, brushing the sides of her face with his battle roughened hands.

"Do it," she taunted, her grip tightening on her weapon.

Syd felt the pressure of his hands increase upon her face, but she didn't move. Stubbornly she held on to the one last hope that D'Avrille would change his mind and back down. She knew her reflexes well enough to know that the second he shifted his arms to wring her neck she would cut him deep and stop him before he could do her irreparable harm. This was her plan, and she trusted herself to be able to accomplish it.

D'Avrille hesitated. His plans to kidnap Syd and hold her hostage as a means of escape now seemed worthless. He would have to kill her to even make it to his horse. He would have to kill her, he repeated to himself.

Kill her, his instincts shouted.

She was smart, he had to admit that. Yet he did know that she hadn't planned on his willingness to give up his life. If he could not escape Faraduen to return to defend Mordichan, he would die here. But he would take her with him.

Take her life, NOW, his instincts cried out again.

He looked Syd in the eye and slowly…

… he dropped his hands.


	11. Chapter 11

-1Chapter 11

Lord Mortimer Younge stood before an ordinary door, in an unremarkable hallway located in the eastern most region of the castle of Mordichan. Without testing it, Younge knew the door to be locked just as he knew he was the one person in the kingdom in possession of the key. Withdrawing that key now, his hand trembled slightly as he slid the metal implement home.

Beyond the door stood nothing more than a silver urn filled with a foreign black liquid, and a chair- both gifts from the king of San Saharia, Krys Belora. On their own, the objects in the room seemed harmless, unthreatening. But Younge knew the truth of the matter, for nothing from that land was harmless or unthreatening.

San Saharia lay tucked away in a small pocketed valley at the Eastern base of the mountains of Mordichan. In the shadow of the great rocks the people of this small country, not more than a large community, lived in quiet seclusion. For all intents and purposes, San Saharia seemed to be an isolationist state. No one could hold claim to having ever crossed its borders. Yet dark rumors ran rampant in Mordichan about the nature of this strange place's population. Some of this gossip had the ring of truth, but most was wildly under-exaggerated.

In Mordichan, only Younge could honestly say he had any contact with a San Saharian. But not just any San Saharian. Younge had firsthand knowledge of the king, himself. And that was a dangerous proposition.

Younge stepped into the small room and took a fortifying breath as he looked at the gift that had been presented to him in the darkest of night- the very night Lord Whitehall had taken possession of the throne.

He had been awakened from a deep sleep by two strange men, with skin that glowed pale in the scant moonlight. Roughly, Younge had been jerked from his slumber, thrust upon the chair, and bodily restrained by one mute intruder as the other took his right arm and thrust it into the oily black liquid contained in the urn. Before Younge could utter his outrage at being so ill-used, he felt a searing pain take hold of his submerged arm. Quickly the agony climbed higher and higher until it reached his shoulder, crossed to his chest, then up his neck as though his body were absorbing the wretched black oil like a cloth in water. His breath gurgled in the back of his throat as his mind began to darken from the intensity, as though his very life were being forcibly ripped through his pores.

At the point when the pain became unbearable, the image of a face materialized in his mind. This quasi-masculine illusion, with its bald head and pale skin, dark hooded eyes and strong nose, cracked its well defined red lips into a terrible smile. Lines that seemed to be drawn in molten silver were etched upon the specter's forehead, bringing to mind the image of flames. Younge sat frozen in the grip of the power of the oil as the face wavered in the pit of his mind. And then a voice reverberated through the halls of thought.

"Mortimer Younge, Krys Belora comes to you in peace and friendship. I send you this gift as a token of my esteem. May it find you well and happily situated in life."

Another gurgle escaped Younge's lips, the torment so intense he was unable to even form coherent thoughts.

Again the voice spoke, but the words were foreign to Younge's mind. They came in the lyrical, singsong quality of a chant and at their conclusion he found the pain had lessened a great deal.

"I do not know you, Sir," Younge managed.

"But I know you. I also know that it is you who gives wise council to your Lord Whitehall and that no decision he will make as ruler will be without your influence. That is why I come to you, and not to him. I wish for you to make known to him that the king of San Saharia wishes to extend his hand in friendship and allegiance."

"Would this offer not be better… in person, Sir," Younge forced out.

"I would not wish to bring the ire of your people, if one such as I were to cross your borders and make myself known. I have heard what is thought of my people in your land," a small frown creased the brow of the disembodied face.

"But is there no other way for us to meet? This pain is… most overpowering," Younge whimpered.

"Pain sharpens the focus of the mind, Mortimer Younge. It expels all extraneous thought. Use it."

"I am not… accustomed to this," Younge gasped.

"Are you weak? Have I chosen incorrectly?" Krys Belora asked, not with derision but as though he were encountering a foreign concept.

Aware enough to be insulted, Younge pulled himself together. "No," was his terse reply.

"Good. We are of like minds, then. Pass along my regards to your regent. I will leave this gift for your use. You may contact me when your Lord Whitehall as accepted my offer. At that time we will discuss recompense."

"Recompense?" Younge was puzzled.

"Nothing of worth comes without price, and my allegiance is of the greatest worth."

At that, Younge's mind had fallen into darkness even as his body tumbled limply to the floor.

Now he stood there again, about to relive this past nightmare. Ready to make a pact with evil itself.

* * *

"Well! Finally, Elsydae. I was beginning to think you'd never get him to come around," Farrah rambled as the royal family sat down in their private chambers to partake of the evening meal. As much as Farrah had loved the pomp and circumstance of taking her meals in full view of the public during her rule, Janessa hated it. Wanting some small semblance of a normal life, it was the first change she made when she took the throne.

"Now that you've gotten that man to see sense, maybe you can get him to marry you," Farrah pressed on. "Its time for you to start thinking about these things, you know. You can't play at boyish games your whole life. There are grandchildren that need conceiving."

"Mother!" Janessa gasped at her mother's impertinence in regards to her sister. Around the table, the titters of three younger sisters bubbled from hand covered mouths. Syd stiffened but said nothing, instead choosing to make great mountains and valleys upon her plate. The word 'marry' in conjunction with the man in question struck a strange note within her. An unfamiliar heat spread from her chest to her ears, and she wriggled uncomfortably in her chair as her mother prattled on.

"Oh, hush, you." Farrah turned her attentions to her oldest daughter. "Don't think I don't know about you and that Sir Bausch. And its about time, I say. Its not fitting for the Queen of Faraduen to go so long without thoughts of an heir. Though it's a shame really. I had such hopes you would meet with Prince What's His Name from Quelsham. He came so highly recommended."

"We've been over this a hundred times, Farrah. No king in his right mind is going to send his son here to be bewitched by your daughter. Not a one of them wants to loose their kingdom to Faraduen. Besides, Marcus of Quelsham was no prince, he was a minor duke," Dougan grumbled from the other end of the table. With a great roll of his eyes, he made his younger daughters chuckle. Janessa mimicked Syd in her deep contemplation of the plate before her, glad that her mother's attention had now shifted to her father.

"I'll have none of that from you, Dougan!" Farrah huffed. "Its just the continuation of the bloodline at stake. Such a small matter. There you sit, indulging their slightest whims. They have obligations, I tell you. But Janessa, Sir Bausch is quite handsome and you will have such lovely babies. When do you plan to tell him?"

Janessa could feel a fresh sense of humiliation in the face of such talk. Yet her mother held her gaze, completely unaware of the discomfort she had caused and fully expecting an answer.

"Mother, I don't… I mean, really I…," she fumbled.

"Mother, its not wise for Janessa to enter into any kind of a relationship with Sir Bausch until we have ascertained his true allegiances. If General D'Avrille can go so unaffected by the gift, it is entirely possible that Sir Bausch could be unaffected as well," Syd jumped to Janessa's defense.

For Janessa, this was unwelcome help. It brought to mind the fact that Sir Bausch was indeed uninfluenced by her gift, and that she had been keeping that truth to herself. Overcome, she rose from the table and fled to her rooms. Feeling her turmoil but unable to put a name to it, Syd rose to follow her.

"Now see what you've done!" Farrah scolded. "You have to let her have her own life sometime, Elsydae. She is queen, you know, not you!"

Syd turned hot eyes upon her mother. To be so misunderstood, by her own flesh and blood stung her greatly. What more did she have to do to prove that everything she did was with Janessa and Faraduen's best interests at heart? Did she have to bleed in the streets? And even then would it suffice?

"Enough!" Dougan barked, silencing his wife immediately.

Without a word, Syd slipped from the room, determined to find her troubled sister and to put her mother's rebuke behind her.

She found Janessa crumpled upon her bed. Syd climbed upon the mattress and sat with her knees pulled up and tucked under her chin. For several moments they sat there in silence, communing solely through their shared bond, sensing each other's feelings as if they were their own.

Janessa pushed herself up and dried her eyes.

"Some Queen I am, running off to my bedchamber to cry like a little girl. I wish I had your inner strength, Syd. Things would be so much easier for me, then."

"You have greater strength than you give yourself credit for, Janessa. You've held tight to some secret that troubles you for some time now, and you've given no hint as to its nature. Though I've nearly got it figured, in light of tonight's events." Syd spoke softly, putting a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder.

Janessa dropped her eyes. There was nothing she could hide from Syd, not for any length of time. And though she had cried upon her sister's shoulder that day in the temple, she had kept the true reason for her distress to herself. With this in mind, she told Syd everything: all her thoughts, all her feelings, and the ultimate truth about Sir Bausch.

Syd listened quietly to her sister's story, letting Janessa purge her soul uninterrupted. At the tale's end Janessa fully expected a stern reaction from her purpose driven sister.

"He loves you," was Syd's happy response. Taking Janessa's chin in her hand and forcing the girl to look her in the eye, Syd gave her a genuinely pleased smile. "He truly loves you."

Janessa blushed and nodded, overcome by Syd's unexpected response.

"This is wonderful!" Syd continued.

"It is not wonderful, Syd. What about the gift? How can I ever trust his intentions? Whether he loves me or not he's made it clear he will not join us in Faraduen." Janessa's sadness spilled out with her words.

"But with the General now coming around, maybe he can help Bausch see the way of things. It may be time to let them meet again. What do you think?" Syd offered.

A light of hope burned in Janessa's eyes. This scheme just might be the answer, after all. But a question still lingered in the back of Janessa's mind.

"And you are certain that General D'Avrille has had a change of heart? You've said nothing more than that. What happened today to give you proof?" Janessa inquired.

Syd paused a moment before answering. She thought about the wisdom of sharing the fact that D'Avrille had contemplated killing her with Janessa. With the knowledge of such information, Janessa would be hard pressed to keep it from the graybeards.

D'Avrille had decided against taking her life, which proved to her that he was softening. Two weeks ago, he would have taken any opportunity to escape or inflict as much damage to Faraduen as possible. Yesterday he had pulled himself up short, and she didn't flatter herself to think it was because of any threat she had made against him. She had seen him war with himself behind his eyes. Yet, more than any of these clues strung together one action stood out above all else.

"He saved my life."

* * *

It was dusk, well after the remnants of his evening meal had been cleared away, when an unexpected knock rose D'Avrille from his long inspection of the paddock outside of his window. He turned just as two guards stepped inside his room, followed by none other than Syd, herself.

With a reassuring nod, Syd sent the guard out again. Once the door was closed behind them, she made herself comfortable at the table before the fire.

"General, good evening. I hope your meal was to your liking."

D'Avrille nodded curtly, already made suspicious by this unusual visit. "What brings you here?"

"General D'Avrille I owe you a debt of thanks. You saved my skull from an inevitable cracking today. Yet more than that you showed wisdom, and dare I say a change of heart, in not taking my life yourself. With one word, I could have you upon the gallows for even attempting it. But I see no good coming from such a waste of life. Your talent is too great, General, to be cut short at the end of a swinging rope. We could use you here. I truly believe that you will find Faraduen the happiest of homes, and your place here will be no less fulfilling than that you enjoyed in Mordichan. What do you say?"

D'Avrille looked blankly at the girl as she prattled on. What nonsense was she speaking?

"You have me at a loss," was his sole answer.

"Well, of course this is an overwhelming time for you as this promises a big change. If you require a day or two to compose your thoughts, I'm sure the Queen would understand," Syd offered graciously.

Again, D'Avrille could do nothing but stare. Then illumination hit him square between the eyes.

"You think I've changed my mind? That I've gone mad and chosen to forfeit my sworn allegiance to my country to bow down humbly and serve yours? Are you daft?"

It was Syd's turn to wallow in confusion.

"But this afternoon, you…" and here she stopped.

"I what?" he questioned.

"Surely, General, you did not spare me only to lose yourself," she put forth.

"Then you gravely misinterpreted my motives."

"But, you…" she began again, frustration seeping into her voice.

"I have not nor will I ever choose to turn my back on my people or my country," his answer fell with the heaviness of the executioners blade.

"Then you choose death!" she yelled.

"So be it."

Syd jumped to her feet in anger.

"Why? Why do you persist with such a foolish line of reasoning? You have been imprisoned here long enough for several messengers to have come and gone, yet no one comes for you. No negotiations have been made on your behalf. Your people and your country have left you here to die. Why waste your life for such utter disdain? Here you are wanted, your talents appreciated and desired. Make your home here with us, and live!"

D'Avrille watched a flush creep upon her face as Syd gave her impassioned speech. It had not escaped his notice that her words had taken on the tone of a personal plea at the end.

"I cannot," he answered, his voice a little softened by a small trickle of feeling that tried to creep through him.

Syd caught her breath to speak, but let it out unused. Her shoulders drooped a fraction, as well as her gaze. Her mind began to churn, trying desperately to hit upon the magic words that would change his mind.

"Is there nothing I can do to persuade you? Can you not see what a travesty it would be to waste such a life as yours? Mordichan comes at us with no provocation, you must know that to be true. You are a man of honor. Can you not see what misguided use you have been put to by your own ruler? Leave that treachery behind, and join us here where you will be honored, exalted even."

D'Avrille removed himself from his place at the window and took up the chair across from her. With deep and earnest feeling, he looked her in the eyes. There could be no doubt as to the veracity of his words.

"I will not turn my back on my people. If I must die, I will die faithful to my country and my oath. Besides, you will only fortify their cause by making a martyr of me."

There was nothing more Syd could say to this, for he was right. She could not save him from the graybeards forever if he persisted in this choice, and to kill him would indeed make a martyr of him. Trouble settled heavily in her breast, and she felt the need for wise council. With a slight nod, she rose and took her leave of him.

Slowly Syd wended her way through the castle, a hand lightly touching the tapestries that lined the halls she traversed. Soon she found herself outside, and shortly there after she stood before the Temple of Faydn. With a deep dejection, she entered.

"Come child, and let me share your burden."

A thick mist enclosed her, swirled about her and swallowed her up. She gave herself over completely to its loving touch and let it fold her away from the troubles of the world.


	12. Chapter 12

-1Chapter 12

Shrouded in robes as black as the shadows they hid amongst, six figures proceeded through the sleeping castle with the confidence of ones knowledgeable of its configuration. The faint chime of metal against metal whispered through the damping qualities of their thick cloaks as these would-be ghosts wended their way down little used corridors. No one but a few venturesome rodents and lurking spiders noted their progress. On they stalked, navigating in silence, each man sharing a single purpose. Salvation was their mission this night.

Soon these men stood with hoods thrown back and blades drawn before two large doors leading downward. Down and down; from the realm of normal living to an inhuman chasm of wanton despair. Barely contained behind the ancient, iron-bound barriers, the cries of suffering and the stink of humiliation reigned. And these men were ready to descend, to plunge full force into this miasma of misery to pull one of their own back up from its depths.

Sir Porter drew a bracing breath and looked once more upon the men who faced the certain charge of treason for standing with him in this very spot. A smile cracked his aged features as he met the unwavering gaze of those surrounding him. Each face was sure and proud, each man a brother-in-arms, and each one ready to give the ultimate sacrifice for their oath and country. No matter what label the currently slumbering usurper would pin upon them before their imprisonment and subsequent beheading should they fail in this mission, Sir Porter knew them all as loyal and worthy men who would follow him...

"Into Hell, my brothers!"

With a roar, these six brave Knights of Mordichan stormed through the first level of the dungeon, taking the guards by surprise and overwhelming them before they could gain their weapons. The battle was short but heated. The guards, unable to defend themselves with steel, made makeshift weapons of chairs and crockery, tossing thick mugs full of stale ale at the heads of the attacking Knights. One lucky guard was able to get his hands upon a length of iron and began swinging like a mad man, hoping to take out anyone he could. Sir Porter himself received a mighty blow upon his sword arm before putting the man to rest. The poorly lit room, filled with the pervasive odor of death and fear was soon littered with the unconscious bodies of the dungeon guards.

Sir Porter confiscated a large ring of keys from the limp form of the head guard before leading all but two of his men down deeper into the abyss. These two stayed behind, acting as rear guard. The rest of the group moved forward, deeper into the dungeon. Lady Catherine had told Sir Porter that Griffin was imprisoned two floors below the throne room, and that was their destination.

The ruckus above had put the guards of the second level of the dungeon on alert. The Knights had known this would be the way, that anything after the surprise of their initial attack would be a full-fledged fight. They were not disappointed. The cramped stairwell became even tighter as the guards tried to push their way up through the descending Knights. Thrust and parry were the only actions that could be maneuvered in such cramped quarters, and there was no room to dodge an opponent's attack.

Sheer skill gave the Knights the upper hand, and soon the guards were pushed back, but not without leaving their mark. Sir Parrish had fallen from a well timed blow to the head.

The struggle concluded as the remaining Knights pushed through to the opened chamber. With the advantage of more space, they made short work of the less experienced guards. Once the guards were subdued, Sir Porter sent his men to search for Griffin.

From the torch-lit main room of the dungeon extended out several dank, darker corridors which hosted the prisoners cells. Grabbing several torches from the main chamber, the Knights proceeded down these foul lengths, peering through barred peep holes in the thick wooden doors sealing each cell. Grim sights met them and foul stenches billowed forth as once strong men looked back at the Knights from unnaturally huge eyes set in hollowed, shrunken bodies. Grime and dirt and bedsores, though nothing passing as a bed was in sight, covered many of the poor wretches that had been housed here since the beginning of Lord Whitehall's reign. Several faces bore faint resemblances of honest men known to them. Such was the fate of any detractor, it would seem.

Sir Porter knew that they had little time in which to rescue Griffin and escape the castle without further incident, and that fact alone stopped him from letting out every captive in this dreadful place. It pained him to leave them here, but he clung to the hope that soon, when his mission was finished, they would be released. With a steeled resolved he strode down his chosen path, adding his voice to the echoing chorus calling out for Augustus Griffin.

A loud cry sounded out, pulling Sir Porter from his search. Sorens had found their man, and Sir Porter ran as fast as his aged legs could carry him, bringing with him the large ring of keys he had confiscated earlier. The younger Knights parted as he approached, and several minutes were wasted as he struggled to find the correct key. Once found, he pulled the heavy door open and stood aside as Sorens stepped in with torch in hand.

A pale, gaunt and bruised Griffin was lead out of the dark hole, firmly supported between Sorens and another brother-in-arms, Sir Brent. Squinting against the light of the torch, Griffin looked upon his saviors.

"Its alright, my friends. They didn't break my legs, I was born this way," Griffin quipped as he disentangled himself from their grip and stood on his own.

"Well, I had thought you couldn't get any uglier, but I'll be damned if you haven't gone and proved me wrong," Sir Porter tossed back as he squeezed the man's shoulder with affection.

A round of laughter went up and Griffin accepted Sir Porter's verbal jab with a nod and a wink. Sir Sorens, seeing that Griffin was in far better shape than any of them had hoped, handed over Griffin's sword belt which he had been wearing beneath his own.

"Are you sound, my friend?" Sir Porter asked as Griffin buckled the belt about his hips and settled it into place.

"I am, Sir. You don't grow up in the barnyard without being able to take a kick or two. Nothing wrong with me that a good night's sleep, a hot bath and a decent meal won't fix," Griffin reassured, though his pale face and unsteady stance belied his words.

"Sadly, that will have to wait. If we aren't outside these castle walls in the next few moments, back in you'll go and the rest of us with you. Its going to be rough going, and you are going to have to keep up. For as of now we are all enemies of the Regent."

Griffin nodded solemnly, feeling the impact of Sir Porter's words. He had his time in the oppressive dark trying to find the reason Lord Whitehall would have him thrown into the dungeon, but he could not settle on one that made any sense.

And a sadness had taken hold, alongside his confusion. Griffin's first battle, the very thing that was to make him a full Knight of Mordichan, had only proven to have the opposite effect. Everything that Griffin had worked toward since his early youth, his every hope and dream, now lay dashed upon the filthy floor of that putrid dungeon. He was not a Knight at all, but now an Enemy of Mordichan.

Sir Porter could see his friend's inner struggle raging across his face, and could sympathize. Yet he also knew something that Griffin didn't, one sentence that would change the way the lad felt about everything they had done, everything they were about to do.

"Griffin, there are things you are going to need to know that will put your worries to rest. But they can't be spoken here, and we've no time to delay. It will have to wait until we are clear of the castle. Alright men," he turned to address the group as a whole, "this is it. The stuff that legends are made of. Our necks are in the noose if we fail, but oh! What glory is going to abound WHEN we succeed! All in?"

"All in!" the voices rang out in unison.

"Sir Porter, hold! What of Sir Parrish?" Sorens called out.

The lines of his aged face seemed to deepen as Sir Porter looked over at their fallen brother.

"The first of us to fall, but surely not the last," Sir Porter spoke quietly before raising his voice in command.

"Take him up, Sorens. We will not leave him here to rot in this filth. And when we are clear of this present danger, he will have the proper burial he deserves."

"Aye, Sir."

They met no resistance as they climbed the stairs leading to the upper level of the dungeon. But once they reached the main chamber they found several of the guards had regained their wits enough to put up a fight. Pitiful as this last stand was, it did serve one purpose for the dungeon guards. It offered a form of distraction. With the Knights engaged in battle once more, one of the guards slipped away undetected to search for reinforcements.

The Knights made short work of the already overtaxed guards and escaped without further incident into the main castle. But they soon learned they were not alone, as the sound of rushing footsteps could be heard coming their way.

As one, the Knights began to sprint toward the main hall, less concerned with secrecy than escape. Once they gained the hall, Sir Porter motioned to the right, and they turned their course toward the kitchens. At this time of night, the kitchens would be mostly empty and lightly guarded. With outer doors that led into the cook's garden and subsequently into the stable yard nearby, the kitchens seemed their surest way out.

Griffin pushed himself to the edge, doing his best to keep up with his companions. But such extended effort was taking its toll. It was not long before the men reached the kitchens, where ordinary worktables and food bins became an irritating obstacle course. The sudden change in tempo drove Griffin off-balance as he tried to skirt a particularly ill-placed barrel of pickled roots. Catching it with his hip, Griffin was sent sprawling upon the cobbled floor. He looked up to see the last of the Knights rush through the door and into the darkness.

Their pursuers had been closer than the Knights had expected, for as Griffin pulled himself up from the floor five castle guardsmen swarmed into the kitchens. He didn't like the odds of things one bit, but Griffin was never one to back down from a fight. Drawing his sword, he braced himself against the large barrel that had so recently been his downfall.

"Come on now, lad. Put down your stinger. You know you've got no chance here. Come with us and we'll tuck you back in bed safe and sound," a large guard taunted as they all pressed slowly forward.

"I'll be glad to sheath it in your gullet the moment you step closer," Griffin tossed back, hoping his bold words would bolster his shaking insides. He knew he was too weak to offer any real resistance to even one of these men.

With a cruel laugh, the guard stepped forward and swung his sword at Griffin's midriff. Though his block was feeble at best, Griffin did manage to deflect the blow but was certain that the man's next swing would be the end of him. His strength was greatly depleted and he was sure that he could not put enough force into an upward swing to be of any use. But fearless to the end, he stood his ground and watched as the guard's sword made its deadly arc.

A roar echoed through the huge room, but Griffin was not sure that the loud sound surprised him more than the red stain growing upon the breast of his attacker. The color drained from the man's face as his sword fell uselessly to the floor. With a groan and a strange, jerking dance the man followed his weapon. It was then that Griffin saw Sorens, pulling his sword from the back of the fallen guard in time to fend off the blow of another. Across from him Sir Porter was making short work of another two guards.

Sorens cut through his next opponent without hesitation and moved on to the last unengaged man. In no time he, too, lay upon the floor like left over scraps for the dogs. It had all happened so quickly that Griffin had barely begun to regain his wits before he heard Sir Porter cry out.

Having bested one of the men he was fighting, Sir Porter now stood rigid, looking in confusion at the sword that was extending wickedly from his abdomen.

Griffin jerked in pain, as if the sword had settled into his own body instead of that of his much loved mentor. And then his darker mind moved forward, that part of a man that is more animal than human. That deeper, more instinctual place that drives a man past centuries of civilization to the beginnings of his ancestry. In a few swift movements, Griffin was face to face with Sir Porter's attacker, his sword solidly sheathed within that man's rib cage. With a gasp the man weakened and sank, slipping from the blade into a heap upon the floor.

Sorens was just in time to help Griffin lower Sir Porter gently to the ground.

"Go… you must go… quickly," the wounded man urged.

"Let us lift you, we must bring you," Griffin's voice cracked and broke.

"No… you must leave me… go now…"

Sorens placed his hand on Griffin's shoulder. "Sir Porter is right. It would only be torture to move him now. Let him go in peace, and we will make it right when things are better."

Everything inside Griffin raged against this suggestion. They were taking Parrish, but had to leave Sir Porter. But looking again at this man he would gladly call father, Griffin knew that his last moments would be excruciating enough without moving him. And to wait for his death would ensure their capture.

"You are my dear friend," Griffin whispered as he clutched the aged man's weakened hand to his breast.

Sir Porter's face eased a little into a smile. "Son."

A flurry of movement could be heard at the door as one of the Knights rushed through. "All is at the ready, we must go before its too late."

Griffin felt Sir Porter tug at his arm and he looked down into the man's eyes, now glazed over with pain.

"Go… save the… king…"

Sorens pulled Griffin to his feet and hustled him out the door, half dragging half carrying the man through the cook's garden and toward the stable. They were met by the other Knights, already mounted. Sorens took the waiting reins of his sorrel gelding and reached down to hoist Griffin up behind him. But Griffin's attention was drawn away as a thrashing and crashing sounded from the stables. In moments a streak of black tore across the stable yard, skidding to a stop before a relieved Griffin.

"Wolf's Bane," he said as he reached for the great beast's mane and hoisted his ill-used body upon his horse's back. Looking to his brothers-in-arms, he nodded.

"Lets fly."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you all for your continued interest in this story. Hopefully the massive length of this chapter will make up for my slow updates. :)**

Chapter 13

"That is not your decision to make, Namore!" Fairhaven jumped to his feet as the impassioned words flew from his lips. Namore's statements were beginning to border on treasonous. Granted, the citizens of Faraduen had felt an unease about the birth of royal twins, and certainly a hint of that unease had persisted even to this very day. But to question Princess Elsydae's loyalty to her people was ludicrous.

"Calm yourself, Fairhaven, and think. Surely you can agree that no proof has been presented to us by the Princess that General D'Avrille will swear his allegiance to Faraduen. All we have received are requests for more time. And her tactics are most unconventional. Its almost as if, and I am almost ashamed to have to say this out loud, but its almost as if she is wooing him for herself," Namore spoke in even, dulcet tones.

He was weaving a fine defense, lacing kernels of truth within exaggerations and suppositions. And he was finding great pleasure in his artwork. Never, in all his years on the Queen's Council, had Namore been presented with such an opportunity for the advancement of his cause. Fairhaven and his ilk could bluster and blow, but deep down they doubted. And it was this doubt that Namore sought to billow into a burning flame. A flame that would fan out and consume the royal family; that would bring a real change into the land. He could practically feel it, the stirrings of a new order- a new way. Janessa was a weak ruler, easily led. Her lone showings of strength came only when she was bolstered by her sister. But with that sister gone…

"I will not calm myself, Namore. If the Princess requests more time, she shall have it," Fairhaven blustered.

"And I once again put forward that we need a deadline. When can we reasonably expect an answer before we must intervene? I state it might already be too late. Who is to say that with the amount of time the Princess is spending alone with this enemy, he is not the one doing the swaying?"

"OUTRAGEOUS!" Fairhaven yelled.

"Is it really? Is it truly outrageous? By your reaction, sir, I see you seek to pin the traitor's mark upon me. But I put this forth for your contemplation. Princess Elsydae is young, has never- and please forgive me your Highness for my boldness in speaking thus- been enamored of any of our young men. She is now in the constant company of man several years her senior, who no doubt knows far more of the ways of the world than she, and surely knows how to turn the head of a pretty girl. While I am aware that our young Princess is quite fearless and accomplished- nay, even highly focused, I feel it is our duty to protect her from herself as she has always been so quick to protect us from any alleged danger."

A grumbling went up amongst the men at the table, but no more was said by Fairhaven on the subject. Feeling well pleased, Namore nodded almost smugly toward the Queen before resuming his seat.

Janessa returned the nod coldly. She had listened quietly, her face a placid mask, as these men postured and preened at each other across the table. Few other council members had anything to interject, leaving the bulk of discourse between Namore and Fairhaven. Each had become the unelected spokesmen for two very different camps.

Stoic as she may have outwardly seemed, there was a tightening in Janessa's chest every time Namore pressed his suit. She could almost feel him tugging invisible strings, working on the more delicate sensibilities of the other council members. He was playing on their fear of the unknown, and even more so he was playing on their lack of confidence in herself and her family.

If there was one thing she had learned over the last few months, it was that there was a lot to be gleaned from listening quietly. And though she knew that her silence was only aiding Namore in his suit, she made no moves just yet. She was watching her enemy, learning his tricks, discovering his weaknesses. Much as her sister did on the field of battle, Janessa was strategizing. And in her breast, and even more so in the area of her spine, a strengthening and a surety was taking hold. She would have her say, very soon… and it would be final.

Another council meeting was underway, without Syd's presence. And just like the other meetings that she had been absent from, she was pacing the vast hallways of the castle. But this time her mind was distracted from Janessa's trials. Instead, she was reliving her last conversation with General D'Avrille. She searched her mind for any misstep she had made, any other words she could have used to sway him.

Absently she walked up and down the hallways, stopping before each tapestry and reviewing its history in her mind. Here was Queen Avery, blessed with the gift of diplomacy. And here, Queen Fianna, gifted with superb knowledge of animal husbandry. On and on it went, until Syd grew tired of these well known images and turned her feet toward the south tower.

Steadily she climbed the steep steps of the little used tower, still absorbed in thought. Her fingertips brushed lightly against the cracked stones, as though she needed some anchor to keep her firmly in this world. Before she fully realized it, she was before the warped and worn door leading into the only room in the tower.

As young children, Janessa and Syd, and occasionally a younger sister or two, would frequent the south tower. It had long been used as a storage house for old relics and family trinkets that no longer held their mother's interest.

Many years after the girls had grown out of such childish ways, Syd had ventured up the winding stair alone and in need of some peace from her ever nagging mother. She had rummaged through the piles of debris idly until she happened upon a tapestry that she had never encountered before. Dusty and in ill-repair, this large swatch of cloth stood in a roll, tucked amongst trunks of old gowns and portraits of long forgotten great-uncles.

Syd now picked her way gingerly through the great mass of clutter, all the way back to a darker recess of the room. Here she had hung the ancient tapestry long ago, out of the damaging power of the sun's rays that streamed through several oblong slits in the tower walls. Once she reached her objective, she stood before it, taking it in as though seeing it for the first time.

It never failed to amaze her, this long forgotten bit of artistry. She had never understood why it had been thrown up here amongst the rubbish and had been allowed to fall into such disrepair. As far as Syd could discern this was the very first tapestry, the originator of a tradition that had long been a source of pride and pageantry for the royal family of Faraduen. Yet something stilled Syd and kept her from dragging it straight to the throne room and demanding it be displayed. With some measure of guilt, she had felt the desire to keep it for herself.

Here she stood now, gazing at the remnants of the tapestry's simple beauty. A man and a woman were the main focus of the piece. She, with a swaddled babe in her arms and he, with a wolf cub at one ankle and a bear cub at the other, stood amongst the bramble and tangle of a dense forest. Faydn and Fjorn. Syd recognized the goddess, though Faydn had only ever taken on a misty, ethereal form in her presence. The gentle, motherly way she held the babe, the merry, teasing look about her face. It could be none other. Which left Syd to assume that the man was none other than Fjorn.

Dark and rugged, the man looked with affection upon the womanly form beside him. His hair was tawny and streaked with gray, his face strong and lined. An overall appearance of confidence was tinged with a streak of wildness about him. It was as though he was beyond domestication or civilization, and as though he was a force as equal in power as the wind, earth, air or water. He was the embodiment of freedom from all constraints.

Softly, Syd reached out and drew a delicate finger around the curve of Fjorn's face, across his neck, around to the cheek of Faydn, and then gingerly further down to the babe. She smiled, a tender feeling in her breast at the knowledge that her people were singled out and so warmly embraced by Faydn. Syd had always taken the babe as a symbol of this affection, just as the bear and the wolf represented Fjorn's love of nature. Yet, as she looked closer at the small form, she noticed something new. A tiny arm was reaching out from the blankets toward Faydn's face. Syd moved a little closer to the tapestry, taking in this fresh revelation. And though her reaction should have been one of wonder, she found that upon further inspection the sight of the small arm was disturbing. Where she had expected to find a plump and healthy limb, she instead saw that the arm was pale and slender. Following the line of the arm upward, she noted also that the fingers were not reaching out in love toward a doting mother, but were instead twisted into the form of a claw. It was almost as though the tiny thing meant to scratch at Faydn's face.

"I thought I would find you up here." Syd gasped and jumped, so engrossed in her study that she had neither felt nor heard her sister approach.

"I think you just took ten years from my life," she laughed as she tried to regain her composure as well as her breath.

"What are you studying so intently?" Janessa asked.

"Nothing," Syd answered hastily, stepping away from the tapestry toward her sister, intent on ushering her out before Janessa noticed its presence. She felt a stab of remorse at her deception, but it was such a small thing that she saw no real harm in it. "Tell me how things progressed with the council."

Janessa let herself be led from the room and down the tower steps, fully aware of the subtle manipulation. She knew that if she pressed Syd on the point, that her sister would tell her all. But she was also aware that it would be better to let Syd tell her in her own good time. Besides, Janessa harbored a secret of her own that she was unwilling to divulge as of yet.

"Namore grows more impatient by the day, Syd. I am certain he will not wait much longer. The man is set on seeing the General hang."

Syd groaned softly behind her sister. Everything seemed to have come to a nice fine boil all around her.

Janessa stopped and turned. As she was a few steps below Syd and in such cramped quarters, she had to look up at her sister, making it almost impossible for Syd to hide her face. Instead, she slumped against the wall of the tower stairwell and let her head fall forward.

"Are you not well, Syd? You were so certain of things before. Has something happened?" Janessa reached out to touch her troubled sister.

"No, things are not well. General D'Avrille has refused, utterly and completely. He says he is quite ready to meet his death, and I believe he is just stubborn enough to see it through. I am fresh out of options, Janessa." The words breathed out of Syd like a heavy sigh.

Janessa studied Syd a moment as she thought on the words she had just heard. The girl was upset, far more so than she had ever seen her. Maybe there was something to Namore's words regarding the seductive abilities of a man such as D'Avrille. _Well_ she thought to herself, _all the more reason to see him stay here, alive. If my untouchable sister finds worth in this man, there must be something to it._

"Syd, maybe now is the time to have Sir Bausch and the General meet again, as we had planned before. I am sure that Charles could be of some help."

"I see no benefit in it. He is holding on stubbornly to his ideals, and I would not want to ruin your chances by allowing him access to Sir Bausch. He would be sure to sway the man to his own point of view, gift or no gift." Syd reasoned.

A flash of guilt passed across Janessa's eyes, but Syd took it for same desperation she herself felt.

"It is one week until our birthday, and the whole castle will be busy with preparations for the celebration.. I will not allow them to make any decisions before it's over. Maybe that will afford us a little more time to settle on an answer that suits us all," Janessa offered.

Syd contemplated this for a moment. Janessa searched Syd's face as she turned the issue over in her mind. Slowly a light of hope crept into her eyes.

"Yes, yes that might do. That might do very well."

_One week_, D'Avrille growled to himself as he paced his room. It had been one week to the day since the little imp had shown herself. She had not sent for him to come to the paddock, nor had she come herself to continue to press her suit. She had not even come to inquire as to his health or well-being. He had been taken out once a day, like an old brood mare, for exercise. But his sole companions had been the guards that took up residence outside his door.

More than likely she was teaching him a lesson. Maybe she thought that leaving him to his own devices would in some way change his mind. How like her, to think she could influence him so easily. Stopping before the window, he looked out across the pasture, willing her to present herself so he could shout at her just how wrong she was.

The hours passed in an unchanging stream, one minute flowing purposelessly into the next. Irritated and on edge, D'Avrille snapped at the guards when they finally came to take him out for his daily exercise, garnering himself rougher treatment than usual.

As he was all but drug through the back passages of the castle, he noticed that a general air of hustle and bustle could be heard amongst the servants. Every turn of the hallway brought fresh faces and arms full of flowers and bunting. Rooms that had always been locked during his previous excursions were now opened and being aired out by maids in abundance.

"What is all this about?" he asked of one of his guards.

"Nothing that concerns you," was the whole of his reply.

His exercise this day consisted of a brisk walk to the stables and back again, which only furthered his overall foul mood. Yet no grumbling on his part could sway the guards to allow him more time, or to provide him with more information. Firmly deposited back into his room not ten minutes after he left it, D'Avrille threw himself upon his bed like a petulant child and willed himself to sleep, hoping the morn would come swiftly and prove of much better stuff.

Faraduen was aglow with excitement, as wars and rumors of wars were put from the minds of its people. After much preparation and anticipation the day had finally come: the celebration of the Royal Day of Birth. And it could not have fallen at a better time, when the people were in such need of respite from their troubles. Gone where thoughts of Mordichan and strange Generals who did not respond to the gift of the goddess. Instead they threw themselves into their tasks with passion. Bunting and flowers bedecked the front of every home and shop, while garlands and candles embellished the insides.

Yet none of this could compare to the grand display put on at the castle, itself. The Queen Mother's precious roses, grouped in stunning bouquets, were tied with ribbons of silk freshly dyed in rich, deep colors. They were then affixed to every available surface and packed to overflowing in large vases throughout the castle. Massive candelabras were set to light the hallways the moment the shadows began their convergence. And all throughout, the tantalizing aroma of spiced meats and fresh breads permeated the air.

Coming in from her daily inspections at the barracks, Syd brushed the dust from her breeches before she passed through the kitchens. The wonderful smells made her stomach protest in hunger, and she remembered she had not eaten since breakfast. Spying a large tray of tartlets, Syd wended her way over to it, trying not to appear suspicious. She gave a furtive glance about the room before reaching out to snag one of the juicy pastries and hiding it in her hand.

"Put that back!" A loud bellow rang out.

Syd flinched in response, and turned to face her accuser. A quiet murmur went up amongst the newest of the kitchen staff.

Smiling prettily, Syd widened her eyes in false innocence.

"But, Cook," she cooed sweetly to the head cook, who now stood before her with one ham-sized fist propped on her ample hip, "whatever do you mean?"

"None of that from you," Cook gave the errant princess a knowing look. The shocked serving girls whispered more heatedly amongst themselves, sure they were witnessing the end of Cook's employment in the castle's kitchens. "Hold out your hands!"

"This one?" Syd asked, holding out an empty hand.

"Now the other."

"With a snap, Syd popped the tart into her mouth before showing her other hand, now slightly stained with traces of berry jam. Quickly, she wiped her hand on the back of her breeches and held it out again for inspection.

"Ah! See, there you go, little fox. Be glad I don't make you spit it out!" Cook scolded, giving the girl her best menacing look. Little good it did the stout woman, as she could not contain the twinkle of merriment in her eyes.

Syd began to choke amidst a fit of giggles, spurring Cook to pound forcefully on her back.

"You, girl," she directed to one of the stunned onlookers, even as the offending bit of crumb flew from Syd's mouth, "bring a draught of water, quickly."

The girl bustled off as ordered and soon returned with a full cup.

"Here, lass, drink this and calm yourself," Cook commanded as she pushed the cup into Syd's hands.

"Don't you know you can never sneak past me? You've yet to get away with it, and I've known you all your days," she continued on, her tone softening.

"Aye, but Cook, its my birthday," Syd laughed as she regained her voice. "Do I get no special privileges today?"

"No!" Cook screwed her face into a disapproving look. "You're dirty from the out of doors. Just look at your hands. And you are putting that on my good food."

"Have pity, Cook. I've had nothing to eat since daybreak and its now an hour till dusk," Syd pleaded.

Cook's face immediately softened. She had always had a special affection for the spirited princess.

"Well, why didn't you say so? You go on and clean the dirt off and I'll have a tray sent up to you."

Syd leaned forward and kissed the woman on the cheek.

"Thank you, dear," she said before rising to leave.

Cook put her hand to her cheek as she watched Syd leave. But this moment of tenderness was short lived.

"What are you all gawking at? Back to work," she barked as she spun on her heal and returned to her sauces.

Syd dodged as much of the hustle and bustle as possible, not wanting to encounter her mother either by mistake or design. The sight of Syd in such a state of disarray so close to the celebration would be enough to send Farrah into a fit of apoplexy.

It was as she was sneaking through the south wing, that the guards were bringing General D'Avrille out for his daily exercise. They were several paces ahead of her and facing away, but almost without thinking, Syd ducked behind a large suit of decorative armor. Her nerve endings tingled as she peeked around to watch the man's retreating back, and she wondered what he was saying to his escorts to cause them to drag him along so roughly. Syd found his reactions fascinating, and marveled at how his months of imprisonment had proved only an irritant to him. His will was definitely forged in iron.

For a brief moment, she caught his profile as he turned to snipe at the guard on his left. It was then, in this private moment that she realized she liked his face, with its hard edges and strong planes. So much of the last week had been spent in preparation for the fete, that she hadn't realized how much she had missed his daily company until now. Their battle of wits invigorated her, to be sure, but she was now realizing how much his very presence had become a comforting familiarity.

Syd watched as the trio disappeared down the hallway and around a corner, and she was suddenly reminded of the dangerous balance that D'Avrille's life now hung in. Slowly, she rose and continued on to her rooms, working over in her mind the disturbing fact that she just might want him to stay around for more than his sword arm.

If Syd had been hoping for a quiet bath and meal, she knew nothing of her mother. Within moments of having shed her clothes and stepping into the warm, soothing waters of her tub Farrah burst into the room aflutter. The Queen Mother's quick eye took in the pile of dusty clothes near the tub before they could be gathered up by one of the maids. In a huff, Farrah turned to her daughter who had submerged herself completely under the water in hopes that she could escape her mother with either patience or drowning. Neither was to be the case, for just as her lungs were beginning to burn for air, Farrah pushed up her silk sleeve and reached into the water, pulling her daughter up by her sopping curls.

"Oh, Elsydae! One day of the year, just one day, I ask for you to act like a woman. Can you not give me this little thing?" her mother scolded.

"Why, yes, Mother. I am having a wonderful birthday. Thank you for inquiring," the poor girl sputtered as she wiped the water from her eyes.

"None of that! I would be more than happy to wish you a happy birthday, dear, if you would not vex me so. Look at this mess?" she pointed to the mop of soaked curls upon her daughter's head. "How will we ever get you ready in time? Must you always make things so difficult?" Farrah sniffed and pulled a delicate handkerchief from her sleeve, which she applied directly to the corners of her eyes. Syd raised a cynical eyebrow, knowing full well that that little scrap of fabric would come away from its task dry as bone.

"Mother, I have duties to attend to, no matter the day…" Syd started in her own defense.

"Of course, duties. But you made certain to go about them as late as possible and to stay until the last minute." Farrah sniffed again.

"Think of things this way, Mother. With so little hair to primp and arrange, I will be ready in far less time than any of my sisters."

Syd saw her mother flinch and noticed the genuine, and foreign, sparkle of moisture in the corner of her eyes. She was instantly moved at her mother's distress.

It had hurt Farrah deeply when Syd had cut her long curly locks. She had raved, sulked and scolded for weeks on end, accusing her daughter of abandoning her womanhood altogether. It came as no shock to Syd that her mother responded so, but what Farrah had not realized was that the decision to remove her curls had not been made lightly. Her hair, with its fine honey-gold color and perfect ringlets, was all she had left physically in common with Janessa. Her mind drifted back to the day that connection was broken.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

_"You could just twist it up under your helm, Syd. No one will know the difference," Dougan spoke with concern as he watched his beloved daughter sit before her vanity mirror and twisted her thick hair into a braid. Tears streamed freely down her face as she secured her handiwork with a thin strip of leather._

_"I have to do it. It is all well and good that our men love Janessa and would die for her, but she is not leading them into battle. Once we are on the field, with no beautiful Queen to rally their spirits, they will start to fear. Mordichan is no small threat, Father. And all I have to offer these men is myself, and proof that I am one of them. So, I will ride before them into the fray, with my beauty gone and my determination set. And none will question my commitment, or that…"_

_"You have the gift," Dougan finished quietly. His heart broke for his dear child, and he was torn in two with doubt. He hated so much that his daughter was putting herself in harms way for the safety of Faraduen; a job that should have laid squarely upon his shoulders. Looking now at her tear streaked face, he began to regret the promise he had made to Faydn so many years ago._

_"I begin to believe I have done you a great disservice, daughter," his voice was gravelly with emotion._

_Syd laid a hand upon her father's arm. "No, father. You've been my greatest support. Now, don't mind my foolish tears. Here, cut right there," she wiped her face and held out the braid, smiling at her father from the mirror before them._

_With a heavy sigh, Dougan took up the shears and cut._

"I will give every attention to my appearance, Mother. And I will not tease you on the matter any more tonight. I promise."

Farrah sniffed again and smiled, leaning down to drop a kiss on her daughter's forehead.

"Thank you, dear," she sighed with relief and turned to go.

And Syd did as she promised, allowing her ladies in waiting to bustle about her as they had never done before. A merry twitter went on about her as a flutter of hands tightened laces, brushed and pinned curls, powered and pinched and perfumed every exposed part. She became caught up in the whirl of activity, and soon found herself even enjoying the experience. Finally, with a collective sigh of approval, the girls parted to either side of the princess and allowed her to see herself in the mirrored glass that hung upon her wall. Syd studied her reflection in shock, seeing her eyes coming from an unknown face and hovering above an unfamiliar form. She was truly transfigured.

But her mother had not been wrong when she said that Syd had pushed things to the last moment. With a gentle tug, Syd was bustled out of her rooms and down to the Queen's chambers where Janessa greeted her with a warm smile and embrace.

"Forgive my shock at seeing you so transformed," Janessa teased. " I hardly know you!"

"Yes, well. The things we do to keep our mother happy, and all that," Syd muttered flippantly. "And now let us go and stop the hearts of the nobility and gentry. You with your stunning beauty and I with my rapier wit."

"She's not the only beauty I see this evening," Dougan announced as he entered the room, Farrah smiling happily on his arm.

"Yes, Elsydae. You've kept your promise very nicely. And, of course, Janessa, you are a vision." Farrah fussed about her eldest for a few moments before taking her arm and leading her from the room, chattering all the while about the celebration and which nobles Janessa should be sure to attend to that evening.

As Farrah escorted her oldest daughter from the room, Dougan winked at Syd and produced a small wildflower from his belt.

"Happy birthday, daughter," he beamed as he handed her the flower and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, father," Syd curtsied prettily and tucked the flower into a little pouch she had hidden in the folds of her skirt, alongside a braided coil of hair she kept with her at all times. She then took her father's arm and prepared to face the festivities.

"Any last words before we engage the enemy?" Syd gave Dougan a sideways glance as she squeezed his arm.

"Don't look them directly in the eye, or you will fall under their evil spell and they will lure you into their wicked plots," Dougan whispered conspiratorially. Laughing at their private joke, they followed the women before them toward the Reception Hall, and their waiting younger sisters, to be greeted by their guests and well-wishers.

As the royal family assembled before the doors of the Reception Hall, two Queen's Escorts, dressed in their finest livery, opened the doors and announced Janessa, Queen of Faraduen.

Silence fell over the assembly as everyone from Duke to serving girl dropped to a knee before their glorious Queen. Janessa smiled upon them all, nodding here and there at well known faces. Once she began to make her way through the Hall toward the Ballroom, the remaining members of the royal family were announced.

Janessa demurely searched the faces on either side of her as she walked, seeking out one in particular. She had hoped to open the ball with Sir Bausch, and maybe even dance several of the opening sets with him. She well knew her political obligations, and if for some reason they might have slipped her mind, her mother had been sure to remind Janessa of her duty as she had bathed, eaten, dressed and once more as they approached the Reception Hall for good measure. Quite a few eligible sons of landed nobility were present this night, and Janessa was to at least speak to all of them. But only one man held sway over her thoughts and there he was now, stepping around and through the bowed forms around him to claim a place at her right hand. _His place_ she thought as she accepted his proffered arm and fell into step with him. Together they entered the Ballroom, floating onto the floor in harmony as the musicians began the opening strains of the first set.

"Now, that is a match I can find no fault in," Farrah remarked as Dougan spun her into his arms and followed his eldest daughter's example.

"Is that so? And here I had thought you only had eyes for the son of Lord Springborne," Dougan teased.

"Well, yes there is him. But this Sir Bausch is very strong, and a leader, Dougan. He seems more than capable to take over the armies of Faraduen upon their marriage."

Dougan stiffened at his wife's words. "That job belongs to Syd."

"You can't expect Elsydae to play these games forever. Be sensible! At some point you and," Farrah dropped her voice to a whisper, "Faydn are going to have to let her be a girl."

Dougan fought the urge to spring to Syd's defense. This was night of celebration, and no place for the tiresome battle over Syd's obligations and expectations.

"I have no desire to get into a spat with you tonight, Farrah. Things will work out as they should, and neither of your daughters need any meddling from you," he growled as tightened his grip around her waist and spun her again around the floor. Farrah giggled with girlish glee. Her troubles were put aside as she danced with her own handsome husband.

Syd wandered through the crowds of courtiers, stopping upon occasion to accept the happy returns of well wishers. Several had commented upon her lovely appearance, and she had warmed at the compliments. But for the most part, the focus of the evening was upon the Queen and her handsome escort. She caught snippets of gossip as she passed through the crowded room.

"A lovely couple, indeed…"

"But dare we trust him?"

"And just think of the beautiful children…"

"A travesty! Are the choices amongst the young men of Faraduen so poor?"

"Princess Elsydae, many happy returns upon your birthday."

Syd looked up at this and found herself face to face with Namore. His cold eyes showed none of the warmth one would expect at such a greeting, and she felt the chill of his gaze echoed up and down her spine. She was instantly reminded of her father's jest earlier in the evening, and she dropped her eyes involuntarily.

"Thank you, My Lord," Syd muttered as she attempted to push past him. But Namore had other ideas, and grabbed her hand to prevent her escape.

"The Queen seems quite pleased in her choice of partners this evening," he spoke again, drawing her attention to the couple that were laughing their way through a difficult reel.

"Yes, it would seem so," Syd replied with little enthusiasm.

"It is very pleasing to see Her Majesty blossoming so. Why, to think just a few short months ago she was so hesitant and reserved. And now look, she is so happy and far more confident," Namore bent down to her ear as they watched the happy pair. "I think she is coming into her own most beautifully. Do you not, Princess?"

Syd caught the meaning behind his words immediately. She had spent enough time in the council room to be able to interpret his fair speech into the poison it really was. _Look, Elsydae. You are not needed. Janessa is blooming without you by her side to guide her, or hold her back. And how happy she is with this man from Mordichan. Your place is taken, and you are obsolete._

Her very skin crawled, as if her body was trying to flee Namore's presence of its own volition. But he held her fast by the hand, all the while hovering behind her back and forcing her to watch. And try as she might, his words carried a sting. There was little place for her, if this was the choice Janessa would make. A man like Sir Bausch would not be content sitting idly on the throne acting the part of the spoiled Prince Consort. He was a man of action and energy, and this would naturally lead him to the barracks and Syd's domain. To keep the peace, she would have to once again back away and step down.

Namore kept watch over her features as he hovered above her. He noted the subtle change in her features, the usual defiant gleam in her eye melting into something more base. Could it be jealousy? That was a destructive enough emotion for him, and a firm seed to have planted. Not one to over do a task, Namore took his leave of her and moved on to mingle with the aristocracy.

Syd remained transfixed by the sight of her twin. A shared womb, and to some extent a shared psyche… yet she felt the cord between them pulled taught and stretched to a translucent thinness. A fragile connection remained, and Syd wondered at what light breeze would come forth to snap it. Janessa had steered ahead into uncharted territory, and Syd had to wonder at what was holding _her_ back.

What, indeed? She looked about herself once more, taking in the beauty of the setting and the gaiety of the celebrants. All of this to honor the birth of a Queen- not a princess. And then Syd realized that it was time for her to make a break of her own. The possibility of her own happiness lay a short walk away, and at this moment she saw no point in putting it off any longer.

It was fully night when D'Avrille rose from his bed. Something had awakened him, and he lay still in the dark for a moment trying to figure out exactly what it was. There, softly, he heard it again. The silvery strains of music and laughter. Curious, he slid from the bed and went to his window. Upon looking out he found nothing amiss, save a path of lighted torches outside of the temple. Here and there a few people could be seen mingling about outside the structure, but beyond that D'Avrille could not pinpoint the source of music and merriment.

Straining his eyes and ears, trying to seek out the answer to this puzzle, D'Avrille missed altogether the soft opening an closing of the door behind him and the illumination of a single candle. He was also unaware of the rustle of velvet and lace moving behind him. What did not escape his notice was the delicate cloud of perfume that soon enveloped him. For the first time this entire day he felt settled, and a strange small hope took root in his mind. But no, this was far too girlish a custom to be the one he wished to see.

D'Avrille turned to meet his unexpected guest, now resolved to the idea that it was someone wholly foreign to him. And as his eyes met none other than Princess Elsydae, he found he was correct.

"Good evening, General. I hope you are well," she spoke softly as she moved over to the table and lit another candle. D'Avrille watched this specter move about the room. She could have been lighting candles with nothing but the sheer force of her will, for all he could tell. That a woman that spoke with _her_ voice was in his room, he was sure of. That this doppelganger wore a semblance of her face, he could also attest to. But that she was Syd herself, he could not swear. D'Avrille watched as she finished her task and came to stand once more before him. There was something that he should be saying, but it escaped him.

"General? Are you unwell?" Syd asked.

A cloud of burgundy velvet swirled about her hips, and hugged gently around her slim torso. D'Avrille noted the soft curves that now manifested themselves upon her chest. And her hair, quite golden in the candlelight, curled in small ringlets about her head and sparkled with tiny jewels pinned here and there. His face creased in a frown, his mouth opened of its own accord knowing that it should speak but not able to draw upon the proper words.

"General?" Syd spoke again and moved forward to place a cool hand upon his forehead. D'Avrille flinched back from her touch, still trying to reconcile in his mind the foreign form before him with the familiar voice issuing from her lips. He wondered that he might still be asleep and dreaming, vividly.

Syd snatched her hand back at his response, and hid it uncomfortably behind her. She was so unfamiliar with the arts and allurements that most women knew how to employ almost unconsciously. All she knew to do was to be forthright and open, and could only hope that D'Avrille was of a mind to appreciate her uniqueness.

"I've come to ask you to join me for a walk. There is something I would like for you to see," Syd asked simply.

D'Avrille frowned again, not sure what to make of the situation. If this was indeed some waking dream, spurred on by his ill temper earlier in the day, he saw no harm in seeing it to its conclusion.

"Alright, show me this 'something'," he replied warily.

Syd went to the table and took up her candle once more. Turning back, she gave him a beckoning smile. D'Avrille stepped forward and followed her to the door, which she opened and stepped through. He, too, passed over the threshold, only to be taken up roughly by the guards waiting for him on the other side. This was no dream.

"Enough of that," Syd commanded. "I have matters under control. You may walk behind, and I will call on you if I feel I need your assistance."

The guards nodded their obedience as Syd turned to D'Avrille.

"This way, if you will, General."

D'Avrille fell into step beside her as she directed their steps through a network of hallways. Once away from the immediate area of his general confinement, he became quite turned around. Throughout their journey he could hear again the distant strains of music and laughter, pierced through periodically by the closer sound of giggling and closing doors. He looked down upon Syd, hoping she would be more forth coming with information than the hulking brutes trailing behind them.

"Is there something your people are celebrating tonight?"

"Aye, there is," she answered softly.

"And is this party some grand secret? No one seems willing to divulge its nature," he said, casting a smug look over his shoulder at the guards.

"No, its no secret. Today is the Queen's birthday." She looked up at him and smiled.

"Ah," was all he could think of in reply.

Silence reigned for a moment, and then he asked, "You've been quite absent lately. Busy with preparations?"

Syd felt a warmth creep slowly up her neck at his interest. "Yes, flowers and fittings and such," she answered, indicating her dress with a sweep of her hands.

"Oh, fittings." D'Avrille examined her form again, and noticed that where the rich fabric stopped at her chest, a pink stain was working its way up her neck and to her cheeks.

"Are you blushing?" he asked in astonishment.

A hand flew to her cheek, and she pulled it away quickly, examining it as if she expected to see that the offending color had rubbed off upon it. Embarrassed, she ducked her head and trudged on, refusing to acknowledge his comment.

D'Avrille didn't know what to make of her reaction. It was positively uncharacteristic of her, and only added to his general confusion.

They walked in silence as each stewed in their own thoughts, until Syd stopped short before a steep, narrow stairway. Taking a bracing breath, she turned to face D'Avrille. She deeply wanted for this to work, for him to change his mind and accept what she was offering. Putting aside her embarrassment, she smiled and gestured toward the stairs.

"Up here, please."

That one word struck a strange chord with D'Avrille. He had known her to be civil, but always with an undercurrent of the commanding. He gave her a wary look as he proceeded up the stairs, Syd one step behind and the guards following doggedly after.

The stairs ended at the old door, and Syd indicated for him to enter. As he went into the room, she turned to the guards and ordered them to stay put. Neither man liked the idea of the Princess alone and unprotected with the prisoner, but each knew better than to question her.

Syd closed the door behind her, effectively sealing herself into the cramped room with an avowed enemy. And as she looked again into his eyes, they both knew it. Yet he made no move against her, and she couldn't help the fluttering within her belly. Once again she attempted contact by grabbing his hand, and this time he did not pull away. Syd's breath caught as she drew hope from this positive response.

She felt at the mercy of her own emotions and it was a wholly new experience for her. She wondered for a brief moment if this was how Janessa felt about Sir Bausch, though Syd knew she didn't love D'Avrille. But he definitely did something to her senses, and of all the men she had known in her life he was the first to elicit this kind of response in her.

"It is over here, around this clutter. Watch your step," she instructed, never releasing his hand as she led him toward her hidden tapestry. She put the candle upon a dusty old trunk and finally let him loose.

"I'm sure you have noted the tapestries that hang in the hallways here. They each tell a story, about the Queens who have ruled Faraduen and the gifts given to them by Faydn," she started. Syd felt strongly that if D'Avrille could just understand her and her people, he would put aside his pride.

"Faydn?" he asked. Mordichan had never embraced the fabled gods of their world, and though he was aware the Faraduen claimed a connection with some goddess he had never heard of, he had always thought that was so much rubbish. It was a common held belief amongst his people that Faraduen's Queens were witches.

"The goddess, our goddess. She blesses each Queen with a gift, to serve and prosper Faraduen. Janessa's gift, of course, is undeniable beauty. None can look upon her and not love her. Well, except for you," Syd felt the heat creep back up her throat and turned away from him toward the tapestry, lest he notice it again.

"I've never shared this with another. Not even Janessa, and she is my…"

D'Avrille cut her off before she could explain her deep connection with her sister,

"You left your celebration to bring he mere to look at art? You've wasted your evening then, for I have no eye for it."

He was growing impatient with this game. A week's absence and now she was sneaking him to remote parts of the castle, dressed in her finest, to show him bits of woven thread. There was more to this, and he wanted her to get to it.

"No," she stammered, taken aback by his abruptness. "I am trying to share my history with you. You have made it very clear to me why you wish to die for your honor, but I do not believe I have made it clear enough why I wish you to stay. Come, look," she urged and D'Avrille looked upon the tapestry at her bidding.

Syd began to tell him the story of the figures, and for a moment he listened. But the bundle in the woman's arms drew his attention. D'Avrille stepped closer to gain a better view of the small strange arm reaching for her face when Syd's own hand broke his concentration. He followed her delicate fingers, another attribute that he had not noticed before, to the face of the man. Her finger traced the masculine features, and D'Avrille felt a strange twinge run up his spine until it became a full jolt at the sound of the man's name… Fjorn.

Slowly, Syd removed her hand from the tapestry as she told D'Avrille of Fjorn. But as she looked upon D'Avrille's face, the words died upon her lips. He was not listening, it was obvious, but what stopped her that moment was the way he studied the figure of the wild god. Almost as though he were caught in a memory. Syd let him look, undisturbed, as she studied his own features. There was a strength in him, not unlike the god of the tapestry, as well as a confidence. What she found the most compelling was an underlying wildness, a sense of freedom despite his imprisoned condition, that made itself known in his very presence. Without thinking she reached up and softly traced a finger along his jaw, just as she had done upon the woven features of Fjorn.

Her touch startled D'Avrille out of his reverie and he jerked away from her as if burned.

"What are you playing at, little imp?" he demanded. This strange new tactic was wearing on his nerves.

Syd grew instantly defensive at the insulting name. Obviously he could see her for nothing more than the boy he had first thought her to be, despite the best efforts of her ladies in waiting.

"You talk as though you are my father, General D'Avrille, but I assure you there are far fewer years between us than you seem to think," she snapped and backed away from him.

"Oh, and how old could you possibly be? Sixteen?" he countered.

"I am twenty-one this very day!"

"Twenty-one? And on the day of your Queen's birth? Somehow I find that hard to believe. Your Queen could be no more than twenty-one, and she is surely older than you," he scoffed.

"Oh, she is older. By two entire minutes," she spat.

"Twins? Ha!"

Syd gasped in rage, but her tongue would not be silent long. He had laughed at her, called her a child and the bite of his insult only added to the pain she felt every time she looked upon the new face her twin now possessed.

"You look upon me now, seeing me as I am- a woman, and you still treat me as a young boy. You mock my appearance to my face, laughing at me when you hear I am twin to a beautiful Queen. Well, here, General," she shouted as she withdrew the coil of hair from the pouch hidden in her skirts and threw it at him, "here is my lost beauty. See the color? Is it not the exact same as my sister's? Do you doubt that to be mine? It was shorn from my head by my very father, to prove to my men that I was dedicated enough to lead them into battle and not some silly figurehead. And why? Because beauty can do no such feat on its own, be it mine or my sister's, and as her _twin_ it was my duty to step in where she was unable. I gave up my right to sit in luxury and study petit-point and eat confections all day to aide my country. I gave up my pride to protect it. And you mock me for it!"

Having exhausted her ability to speak, Syd spun upon her heel and scurried through the cluttered room as quickly as possible. D'Avrille watched her fight her way out of the room by the light of her forgotten candle, knowing because of the guards he could not follow. Her words had stung him, for the most part, because she had taken his disbelief at her revelation as a slight against her appearance.

Syd could not have been farther from the truth. He found her very near perfect that evening, and could not doubt any physical resemblance to her sister. Yet it was the complete difference in their temperaments that had caused his reaction. She was so much like he was himself, quick of thought, action and tongue. And though his first hand knowledge of Faraduen's Queen was limited to the few moments he had spent in her presence in the throne room upon his arrival to the country, he saw none of her demureness or reserve in her sister.

But what was worse for him was that he had thought she had been trying to seduce him. And maybe she had in some way, but not for the nefarious reason he had originally thought. Quickly he bent down and picked up her discarded braid and ran it through his fingers, feeling the soft texture of it. But he was not allowed to contemplate it long, for the guards had burst into the room in response to the Princess' raised voice. D'Avrille tucked the braid into belt, where it would be not be lost as he received the warm welcome from the guards he was sure he was about to get.

Syd pushed past the guards as they rushed into the room, ignoring their inquiries about her condition. The dark stairwell loomed before her, but she would preferred the chance of a twisted ankle than to return to that room to get the candle. Hitching up her skirts she practically flew down the steps of the tower. Her pace never slowed as she ran for her rooms, and once safely there she locked herself in and began tearing the dress from her body. Syd paid no mind to the shredding fabric, she cared only that she was free from the hateful garment. She mentally chastised herself for having been so weak, for having given into the girlish temptation of attraction as she threw on her breeches and tunic and pulled on her boots. In her haste she forgot the twinkling gems pinned into her curls. With no further thought on the matter, she took to her heels again and made her way out of the castle, avoiding any of the more public routes in hopes of not meeting anyone.

Soon she was free from the confines of stone, mortar and humiliating memories. Once she was surrounded by the sweetness of fresh air and darkness, Syd allowed herself a few tears. But only a few- one for her frustration, one for her anger and one for her rejection. Her course was directed to the temple and she only slowed down as she approached the illuminating reach of the torches that had been placed along the path to welcome the revelers as they paid their respects to Faydn for their Queen and her gift. Quickly she brushed the tears from her eyes and stepped onto the gravel path that led to the temple steps. Pulling herself up, she stepped forward with false confidence until her eyes met with those of her sister, just leaving the temple and draped merrily on the arm of Sir Bausch.

Proximity and strength of emotion forced a current of strong connection between the sisters, with a power so compelling and so opposite that they were physically thrust back from one another. Startled by Janessa's sudden jerk, Sir Bausch placed a bracing hand upon her back. Syd had not such companion, and she was left alone to momentarily twitch like a marionette. Bausch looked at Janessa in concern, but he was lost to her as she locked eyes with her sister.

Janessa was not one to let bad feelings take hold upon her, so she set aside the strange feeling and approached her beloved sister.

"You are upset. What has happened?" she asked with deep concern. Janessa had never felt such a deep reaching sadness in Syd before.

"And you are the happiest I've ever seen you," Syd responded, though her voice did not carry the tone of congratulations that her words might have suggested.

"Elsydae, please. Put aside your sharp tongue and tell me what troubles you. How can I help you if you do not tell me what is wrong?" Janessa urged.

"You could not help me now even if you truly wished it. But I cannot see how you could have time to wish it, with your mind so filled with thoughts of your own happiness," Syd snapped as she moved around her sister to continue her way to the temple.

Janessa grabbed her sister's arm and pulled her back. "I don't understand this, Syd. You were so happy for me before. What has happened to offend you?"

Syd shook her arm free of her sister's grip and raised a brow. "What has happened? I am a great fool, that is what has happened. In a short amount of time I have been able to convince no one but myself that the General should join us. Not one other living being has taken my side, not one!" Syd looked at her with significance.

"Sister, that is unfair. I have pled your case in the council, and bought you all the time I possibly could. Maybe it is for the best this way, maybe this is how it is meant to be."

"You have pled your case in the _council_?" Syd repeated heatedly. "You have _pled _your case? Damn it, Janessa! You are QUEEN!" Syd began to shake with overwhelming emotion. Never had she been so furious at her sister's inability to stand on her own.

"But, Elsydae…" Janessa began in defense of herself.

"Go and enjoy your love affair, sister, for any hope of that for me will die in the next few days," Syd barked, cutting her off.

"Elsydae, the council is not wholly incorrect. You must see the sense of it. General D'Avrille is not willing to change, and you have not been able to sway him." Janessa's words began to gain heat.

"Oh, but that I could have your gift so I could just make him love me, then we would not have these troubles."

"Watch your tongue, sister, I am still Queen!"

"Then act like one, and stop bowing and scraping before a herd of gray old goats!" And with that Syd pushed past her, not willing to let herself be stopped again.

Bruised and aching, D'Avrille leaned against the window of his room, hoping to catch a fresh breeze. The guards had been none to pleasant with him after Syd's angry departure, and there was not a single thing he could say in his own defense, much less anything he could do to protect himself as one held him around his throat as the other knocked him into unconsciousness. He had awoken in his room, sore all over. And yet, as he stared out into the darkness, he could only think on what had transpired between he and Syd.

It might have been the clearness of the night, or the gentle wind that brought her voice so clearly to his ear, but D'Avrille was certain that it was Syd he was hearing. The distant lights at the temple caught his eye, and he noted amongst the figures coming and going from it her familiar form in its customary breeches. At first her words came in broken bits, until her pitch raised and he could make out every syllable. He groaned as she unwittingly reaffirmed his prior realization- she had been playing no game.

Syd entered the temple, which was still partly filled with nobles and courtiers who had come to worship with the now departed Queen. She was beyond having any concern with appearances, and wished to be absolutely alone with her goddess. Raising her voice in command, she ordered them all out, and shocked at her lack of propriety they scurried away like so many rats. Silence reigned for a moment as she collected herself, not wanting to approach the altar in such an angered state. But Faydn had other ideas, and the holy mist swept through the large room and engulfed Syd in a wash of sparkling color. Reds and blues twinkled and flashed until the shifting mass took the form Syd knew best.

"Child, you are burdened. Come share your troubles."

Syd's shoulders sagged as she fell into the figure of her dearest comfort. Faydn swept her up and carried her like a child to the altar, where she sat the girl down and stroked her face.

"You care for him very much, and that is good," Faydn began.

"There is no good in it. Janessa will let them kill him. She could not stand up to them, not even for me. After all I've done and given up, she will not even do this one thing," Syd confessed, knowing that this was the one place she could safely say all that was upon her heart.

"Dearest, do you doubt me?"

"No, Faydn, never," Syd said with conviction.

"All will work out as it should. I have a plan for you, and it is a very good one. The seeds of it have just begun to be planted. Don't worry, I know what…" Faydn stopped suddenly. Her form dissipated and grew dark, very much like a storm cloud, as the temperature of the room dropped so quickly Syd began to rub her arms from the chill.

"Faydn?" She asked, concerned at this unknown state her goddess had suddenly taken on.

Faydn's voice became cold and terrible and rang through the temple with such power it shook the foundations.

"Evil has come to kill your future. Go, save him and do not fail for more depends on this than your happiness."

"But, Faydn, what…" Syd stammered in fear.

"Do not question me. Go! I must leave for the mountain this very moment." With that the temple emptied and Syd sat upon the altar alone. Flustered as she was, she tried to think hard on Faydn's command, hoping to guess the meaning of her words. What future, what 'him'? And then it hit her like a bolt of lightening. D'Avrille.

With a speed she did not know she possessed, Syd tore across the fields, caring nothing for paths and hurling herself over fences. When she could spare the attention, she looked up to D'Avrille's window, searching for a sign of anything amiss. The room was darkened except for a faint glow that she hoped was the fire in the grate. Practically flying, she tore through the kitchens and to the servants stairs, up one then another flight, through the hall past the south tower and onward until she came to the juncture that lead left toward his room. Here she slowed and caught her breath. It was best that she be ready for anything before venturing on.

Almost certain that the trouble she would find would come from none other than Namore, Syd peeked around the corner and looked down the hall. Seeing nothing, she slipped silently forward and hid behind the tapestry of her great-great grandmother. From here she peered out again, to see the two guards chatted quietly amongst themselves. Slowly, she craned her head about, looking for any signs of trouble. Nothing could be seen, and she had just decided to step out and alert the guards to be vigilant when a strange darkness gathered at the opposite end of the hall. Syd pulled back just enough to hide herself while still being able to keep sight of the odd shadow.

Almost like a shifting mass of dark wind, the blackness moved through the hall toward the guards, candles guttering and blowing out in its wake. The two men noticed the movement and turned to face it, then turned to each other in confusion. A grave error on their part, as the black matter stopped suddenly before them and transfigured itself into the very real form of a man. Each guard flinched instinctively for their sword, as had been ingrained in their mind to do since their early days upon the training field, but it was a wasted effort. Neither got any farther as the murderous visitor, his skin glowing pale and naked in the light of the few remaining candles, took both their lives with a hideously graceful sweep of his daggered hands.

Syd stifled a gasp at such staggering power, her eyes riveted to the figure not ten feet before her. Naked save a dark loin cloth, his head void of any hair, with strange markings that seemed to almost flow upon his skin like molten silver the assassin hovered over his victims in search of any sign of life. Finding things to his satisfaction, he turned his attentions to D'Avrille's door. Faydn's voice came to Syd's mind like a shock of cold water "…save him and do not fail."

Sliding her right hand down her leg, Syd grasped the handle of the small but wicked dagger she kept sheathed inside her boot. She was terrified, and had no idea how she could possibly stop something that was so powerful and deadly, but she was alone and there was no other choice. Slowly, she crept from behind the tapestry, blessing her luck at having done so without making a sound. The man had drawn something from a pouch secured near his loin-cloth, and holding this object in one hand he focused his attention on the door before him, touching the wood with his free hand and murmuring in a foreign tongue.

Syd thought her best course would be to sneak behind him while his attentions were so engaged. She padded forward softly and slowly, as she was unavoidably angled to his right and did not want to draw his eye as she moved more behind him. All seemed to go as she wished, until door suddenly blew inward as though hit with a battering ram. Syd jumped and gasped with the shock of the explosion.

Though the noise and commotion did well to cover Syd's response, luck was not to be with her as the forgotten gems in her hair caught the light from the few lone candles and cast their sparkling reflection upon the still outstretched arm of the assassin. With unnatural speed he turned to face his enemy. There was no time for thought or strategy, only reflexive action. And that was the only claim Syd could have on the miraculous feat that happened at that moment. In one smooth movement, the dagger flew from her fingers, lodging itself in the assassin's breast before he had done more than turn around. Her breath left her in a rush, as her knees weakened and she sank to the floor.

But a moment's peace was not to be had, as she was shocked back onto her feet by the large form or D'Avrille plowing through the debris of the destroyed door of his room, swinging a wooden chair over his head like a weapon.

"Who wishes to die first?" he yelled as he looked around for someone to hit.

"General!" Syd called out, hoping to stop him before he accidentally injured her.

"Where are they?" he asked, seeing her but not fully grasping the situation.

"Dead, General. He's dead." Syd pointed to the pale body crumpled upon the floor before her.

D'Avrille breathed deeply, bringing himself back under control. "Is he the only one?" he asked.

"Yes, if there was another, he'd be upon us by now," Syd answered, hoping against hope it was the truth. With the power the assassin had possessed, she could not fathom the need for there to have been more than one.

D'Avrille took note of the destruction around him. Both guards lay dead before the remnants of his door, an unusual man lay face up with a dagger standing defiantly between his ribs, and Syd stood before him, trembling and white-faced. With the threat of another attack put aside, D'Avrille reflexively grabbed her up and clutched her to him.

"Are you hurt? Are you injured? Did he get to you?" A rush of questions flew from his lips as he thrust her out from himself to examine her for any wounds.

"No," she whispered as the enormity of the event washed over her and left her weakened.

"Did you do this? Did you kill him?" D'Avrille pressed on, keeping a grip upon her arms.

"Yes," was all she could manage.

"Well done! And you are not hurt in any way?" he asked again.

"No, I'm nothing more than shaken up. I've never seen anything like it. It was almost as though he was a shadow, and then became flesh before my eyes. And so fast!" Syd stammered as she told D'Avrille the tale of the attacker, thinking nothing of the fact that he had yet to remove his hands from her arms.

He listened intently to her story, and upon its conclusion he released her to walk over to the body and examine it. Syd followed slightly behind him, fully expecting the dead man to pop back up and end them both. There was not much of the man to search, as beyond the loin cloth he had only one large pouch and the object he had been holding before the door. D'Avrille pulled the pouch free, opened it and poured its contents upon the floor. A few coins fell out, but nothing more. He then picked up the parcel the man had dropped, which was bundled in a darkened, dirty cloth. The smell of it was rank, and he was loath to open it.

"Turn your eyes, Syd. This could be quite nasty," he directed as he began to lift a corner of the cloth. Syd wanted to bristle at this, but she did not have the energy, so she did as she was told. She could hear the slow slipping of cloth as he unwrapped the object, his deep intake of breath, followed by a disturbing silence. Unable to stop herself, Syd turned to see what had so caught his attention and covered her mouth in horror. A hand, once delicate and obviously feminine, lay wretchedly upon the open cloth.

"Cover it up and leave it," she urged, placing her own hand upon his shoulder.

"I cannot," his voice came in hollow tones.

"But why? This is morbid. He was obviously some sort of monster, to collect something so foul. Leave it, and I will go call the guard to sort this all out."

"You do not understand," he continued as he slipped a golden ring from the third finger. "This is my mother's hand."

"Are you certain?" she asked as she sat down next to him to examine the ring.

"I had this ring made for her when I joined the Knights of Mordichan."

"Why would someone do this? He obviously meant to kill you, but why harm your mother?"

"I don't know."

Syd looked down at the appendage in confusion. It made no sense to her, but there was so little she knew really of Mordichan, its people, or the leader of its armies. As she contemplated this, a soft glow of gold caught her eye just under the hand's palm. Cringing, she slipped a finger underneath and popped the article out. Another ring, larger and intricately adorned, rolled into view.

"What is this?" she asked.

D'Avrille took up the second ring and examined it.

"It is the signet ring of the King of Mordichan," he said, though he could not understand what it had to do with his mother.

Syd watched his face as it sagged with heartache. She didn't have any answers to this mystery, only more questions. But what she did know was that somewhere outside of Faraduen, D'Avrille's mother could lay hurt or dying, maybe even already dead, and no one in her country would be willing to help him. Except for her, because she was to save him. He was her future; Faydn had said so.

"We must go, quickly, before anyone sees this. I can get us out of the castle without notice if we leave now. I will be able to get Helios and my mare from the stables undetected, and I believe I may be able to get us through the gate if we can act as though we had too much ale at the celebration and are stumbling off for home. But we must act quickly or we will be forced to fight, and I will not turn a blade against my countrymen."

D'Avrille looked at her as though she had suddenly sprouted a third eye.

"Now, General, or all hope of flight is lost!" she hissed.

"You cannot be serious. It would be your neck at risk as well as mine."

"I assure you I have never been more serious in my life. Your mother may be in dire need of your help, and I am your only way to her," she swore as she evenly held his gaze.

"Speak with your sister. I am sure, with your support, she would be able to help me. To rush off in the way you suggest will make it seem I have abducted you and only add to my present troubles," he reasoned.

"Janessa is a pawn of the council that wishes you dead. You will receive no help from that quarter, I assure you. I am your only resource at present, and I dare them to send anyone after us. I will quickly set them right," she spoke with confidence as she gently slipped the swords from the cold grasp of each of the dead guards. Without hesitation, she handed a weapon to D'Avrille, who took the proffered blade for the gift it was- an offering of protection and trust.

Once equipped, D'Avrille slipped the rings into the pocket of his breeches and jumped to his feet, hauling her up with him. "Lead on then. You need not tell me twice."

Syd was good to her word, and had them outside the castle walls in mere moments. The lateness of the hour worked well in her favor as she approached the stables. With the whole country deep in their cups, she found the horses unattended. Not wishing to push her luck, she decided against saddling Helios and Halifax, settling instead for nothing more than a bridle and a blanket on each. It was then upon her and D'Avrille to play the part of the drunken revelers in order to pass through the gates undetected.

At any other time, Syd would have upbraided the gate guards for their complete disinterest in their positions that evening. But this evening she blessed them silently as she and D'Avrille slipped through the gates unnoticed. Once away from the castle, they mounted up and flew across the fields to the south, hoping to make the cover of the forest before the light of dawn.

Not one for celebrations, Namore had retired to his rooms long before what was considered fashionable. His manservant Rodick was at his side the moment he entered, helping him remove his formal attire and change into his more comfortable evening robes. Namore then took his place before the fire as he settled into his favorite chair, book in one hand and goblet of wine in the other. Quiet surrounded him as he paused in his reading to savor the memory of his conversation with the Princess. Things were working far better than he had anticipated. The seed of doubt had been firmly planted in both sisters, and with a little watering it would bloom into a full blown distrust.

The sound of hurried steps outside his window broke into his contemplation. Rising from his chair, he went to see the cause of the commotion. Namore had learned long ago that there was much to be gained by listening at keyholes and peering through windows. People were at their most vulnerable when they believed themselves alone.

He watched with interest as two figures darted toward the stables, until he recognized one of the figures as none other than the Princess herself. Silently he signaled to Rodick, who materialized at his master's side with practiced speed.

Namore spoke a few quiet words to Rodick, who then slipped from the room with all the stealth of a viper. Moments later he returned with the information his master had requested. Namore thought for a moment on what his man had discovered, until his face broke into a satisfied smile. Once again, Rodick was sent away.

A Princess gone, her favorite prisoner with her. Two dead guards, a tattered dress. Only one thing did not fit well into his plan, and that was the pale figure that even now was being carried on the shoulders of a silent servant, soon to meet its final rest deep beneath the fertile soil of Faraduen.


	14. Chapter 14

_Thank you all for your patience. This story will be finished, its just a bear to write. Hope this chapter does not disappoint._

Chapter 14

On the Eastern border of Mordichan, seeping out from the base of the imposing Hashmir Mountains, a rugged square of land was home to the people of San Saharia. Nothing more than a small community, a smattering of mud and stick huts were woven amongst dirt fields and half blighted forests. It was a pathetic sight, and hardly worth the ominous mystique that shrouded it.

Lord Whitehall shifted in his saddle, leaning toward Younge so that their pale, silent escorts would not be able to hear.

"So, this is the great San Saharia? And from which proud lineage does their king descend? The shepherd or the root farmer?" Whitehall mocked.

"My Lord, I assure you that Krys Belora is no root farmer," Younge whispered back, his eyes scanning the tableau before them. He, too, was taken aback by the simple village with its plodding inhabitants, moving apathetically about their lives of drudge and toil. Younge compared his unnerving contact with Kyrs Belora against this dismal sight and found it wanting. This was anti-climatic to say the least, and apprehension and bile began to stir in his stomach.

The two black robed men who had met them as they crossed the border from Mordichan to San Saharia and been their guides and mute companions ever since, turned their mounts away from the lackluster village and headed directly toward the Great Hashmir. Whitehall and Younge exchanged questioning looks as they turned their own horses to follow, the animals picking their way through the brush and loose rock that littered the outskirts of the mountain's base. The men of Mordichan rode uneasily behind their strange escorts, wondering that they were being led away from the village toward a vast nothingness.

By a quarter of an hour's time, the group was within sight of the foot of the mountain, where a large black crevice tore through the rock like a strike of lightening shredding the sky. It seemed a thin crack from a distance, but became a vast gash as the party drew ever closer. In the shadow of the looming mass of rock and its great black wound, unsure of their final destination, Whitehall and Younge felt a sudden chill.

They came to a stop just outside the dark void and the pale men dismounted. Younge, who stared hard into the darkness as if to divine some form or figure that would render its existence less disturbing, jerked back to attention as one of the men struck him upon the leg and pointed forcefully to the ground. Taken aback by the slight but too unsure of his situation to call the man out for it, he slid from the saddle. Whitehall followed suit and came to stand next to Younge, as much from a need for security as from the direction of the second imposing escort.

The encompassing darkness swallowed them as they were pushed and prodded forward by their silent companions. These men seemed unaffected by the transition from light to dark, and they made their way forward with a fluidity of familiarity with their surroundings. The men of Mordichan had no such ease of progress, and they stumbled onward, interminably, with a lack of dignity that quickly wore down their last vestiges of confidence and left them completely under the power of their guides turned captors.

Just as the solid world began to slip away from Younge and Whitehall, and the blackness seemed to eat away at past, present and future, a dim light emerged ahead, and its faint glow bounced in and out of their vision due to the swaying form before them. Like the first sight of the black tear in Hashmir's stony flesh, the light grew until it filled their vision. But so deep had they journeyed into the belly of the mountain, that even the promise of illumination held no comfort for these shaken travelers.

Younge broke from the constricting tunnel shaken and pale, and turned to find his companion in no better state. The current surroundings did nothing to assuage their fears, being little more than a large hewn cavern in the rock and seeming to serve no other purpose than to be an antechamber. Three large, uneven openings were carved into the furthest wall, where they waited like sinister portals, their inky blackness promising to lead the living into the eternal void.

Silent figures, wraithlike in their ebony robes, emerged from one carved entrance and plodded heavily into another in sporadic groupings, taking no note of the interlopers who studied their measured movements so intently. Younge fidgeted, uncomfortable, as they were brought up short in the center of this hall and made to stand, waiting for what or whom beyond their ken. A twinge of ire bit at him as he felt Whitehall shuffle behind him, as though using Younge as a shield from the uncertainty of their current situation.

Younge could only guess at how long they stood, but the eerie quiet was eating at his insides; so much so that a sense of relief washed through him when two dark figures broke free from the living stream and came to stand before the small group. One lifted a pale hand from his sooty robes and pushed back his shadowy cowl, freeing his ashen face from its dark recess. Younge felt immediately that he preferred the man as he was before.

"Lord Whitehall," the man spoke in quiet tones, his disinterested eyes locking firmly over Younge's shoulder.

"Ye-," Whitehall's voice caught in his throat as he peered from behind Younge's shoulder. With a nervous cough he began again, hoping to convey a sense of confidence he most decidedly did not feel. "Yes."

"Our lord sends you his tidings and a gift," the man gestured to his companion who was suddenly in possession a tray laden with two simple challises, which he held before him with a strange gravity. "A fine mead from our own land," the man waved a solemn hand toward the proffered cups. "A refreshment, to ease the weariness of your travels."

Whitehall cautiously stepped forward as the man beckoned, brushing past Younge as he went. For the briefest of moments the San Saharian's eyes met Younge's, and a flash of acknowledgement passed between them- a second's camaraderie born of like purpose.

"Will we be meeting your Lord anytime soon," Whitehall questioned, a bout of surliness returning as he took a cup and passed the rim under his nose, breathing deeply of the honeyed liquid's scent. He turned back, raising a questioning brow to Younge who nodded him on.

"He is preparing for your arrival as we speak," the man answered in measured tones. "I am to bring you to him, once you have had refreshment."

Younge drew forward to take a challis for himself, and said nothing as he watched the amber fluid ripple as he absently rolled the stem between his fingers. He, too, passed his cup beneath his nose, and the rich scent sent his mouth to water with want. He looked again at the San Saharian and was met with a tiny shake of the head. Feeling Whitehall's eyes upon him, Younge smiled his thanks to Krys Belora's emissary and tipped the cup to his lips.

"This is quite good," Whitehall murmured as he took another, longer draught.

"Indeed," Younge replied as he watched the man greedily drain the cup.

"If you are ready," their escort gestured for his companion to take their cups- one empty, one full. Feeling a return of confidence, Whitehall fell into step behind the man leaving Younge to follow after. Younge looked before them at the three black openings, his stomach knotting, seeing that once again they would be swallowed by darkness before the journey was ended.

The black passage was every bit as dark as the one they had entered through, but the way was less treacherous. The ground beneath their feet seemed worn and grooved. Younge could only imagine that the constant flow of tromping, shuffling feet had made it so. He was deeply struck by the realization that many decades would have been required to have left such ruts in the rock, combined with a large quantity of feet. But what struck him even more was the vast difference between this well used path and the one leading in from the outside.

Younge had only moments to ponder these thoughts before a dim light could be seen ahead. The light brought out the images of his companions, and he was able to see their dark silhouettes moving before him. His chest tightened as he saw the form of Whitehall, hands outstretched, grasping for purchase at the walls to his sides, weaving like a drunkard and getting worse by the moment. Before Younge could give it a full thought, the group burst from the tunnel into a massive chamber lit to amber with smoking torches. His breath caught and hung, his legs faltered to a halt as he looked into the heart of Hashmir.

The silent guide behind him pushed him forward, and he stumbled until his legs found their strength. As his mind absorbed the vastness of the room, he became aware of movement which was increasingly more defined as they were led on. The movement of bodies, innumerable and slowly shifting, filling the room to near capacity save the empty space they now proceeded through.

Not empty, Younge corrected as his shocked eyes came to rest upon the sight before them. Not empty at all.

Krys Belora stood before them, naked to the waste, his pale muscles and glistening skin shining in vivid contrast to the golden glow of the torches. Younge could not help but note that the strange silver markings that had adorned his face upon their first meeting were repeated in almost mystical loops and whorls upon the whole of his unclothed flesh. So brilliant was this etching that it seemed to flow upon his skin like a river of liquid metal. Younge found himself caught up in the remembrance of their first discourse, and he could feel again the pain of the dark oil as it had taken hold of his body. Trembling, he realized that here and now he stood upon the soil of the real San Saharia, and he was indeed awed.

"Welcome," Krys Belora's voice echoed deeply through the immense hall with a wrongness that made Younge's flesh crawl.

"Sir, you have forgotten your clothes," Whitehall slurred as he thrust a hand upon his hip and raised an accusing brow. Younge hissed for his companion to be silent, suddenly cowed by the dire predicament he now found himself. This was no meeting across a wooden table, no peace treaty within the confines of a council room. This was wholly different than what Krys Belora had led him to believe.

The Lord of San Saharia did not answer the Liege Lord of Mordichan. With a look, the black robed men took Whitehall by each arm and brought him to stand before their master, leaving Younge gaping in desperation between them and the mass of bodies he now stood before alone. His tremble grew to a shake.

At the wave of his hand, the dark priests tore open Whitehall's shirt, and Krys Belora stood back and appraised him like so much horseflesh, ignoring the offended man's slurred protests. He stepped forward and placed a tapered hand upon Whitehall's chest, which spasmed violently beneath his touch. A look of displeasure crossed his face, his lips twisting in a sneer. "You've soured," Krys Belora murmured, "I'll not use you long."

With a nod, Krys Belora stepped away and his men dragged Whitehall to the large stone table that Younge had not noticed previously. It seemed that Whitehall had lost all capacity to stand, which no longer mattered as the men laid him out upon the flat cut of stone.

Younge twitched like marionette, his body physically responding to his inability to act, his feet seeming to have become one with the ground beneath him. A rumbling in the cavern added to his fear, thoughts of cave-ins running rampant in his mind until the vibrations took on a living tone and he realized that what he was hearing was the chanting of thousands of voices. Involuntarily, he began to crouch toward to the ground, the terror taking hold of his reason.

Krys Belora came to stand behind the table. His arms, thick and ropy with muscle and sinew, were cast out to either side of him as if beckoning some power to fill him, the air surrounding him seeming to crackle with unharnessed power. His skin crawled with the living ink. He was mythic, god-like, as his very presence seemed to grow and fill the room, sucking upon the life of everything around him. Here he had been birthed and re-birthed for time immemorial, and here he would be born once again.

He clutched a crude dagger in his right hand, primitive in its design but far from simple in its purpose. Younge could only watch as the evil point poised above Whitehall's chest, directly above his heart. He saw a look of confusion fill his lord's face, twisting its features into a silent scream as the dagger sheathed itself into his chest. Younge heard a strangled cry come from his own throat as if in a dream. What had he done?

With a shudder, Krys Belora thrust the dagger home, and with a moan he felt the surge of power fill him to bursting before it flowed out again. His face split into a wide grin, and with a final sigh he fell into a lifeless heap upon Hashmir's floor. Younge gasped in confusion, even as the incessant chanting ceased and a tense silence filled the great cavern.

**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**

Dougan stood before the engraved door of Janessa's bedchamber, his meaty fist pulled back to strike. He stopped himself as the door swung open to reveal a startled Sir Bausch, hastily tucking his shirttail into the waistband of his breeches. The gray flint of Dougan's eyes briefly met the sea-glass green of Bausch's before the younger man dropped his head in discomfort and sidled around the father of the Queen. Dougan, having turned his head to watch the man go, was brought back around by Janessa's gently cough.

"Father," she said simply, her eyes shining and her cheeks dusted rose.

"We'll talk on this later, Janessa," he growled, momentarily distracted from his purpose by what he had just seen. "Right now, I need to know if you've seen your sister."

"Elsydae?"

"Aye. I've not seen her since the start of the celebration, and it's nigh on daybreak now."

"I saw her last at the temple, Father, but it was many hours ago," Janessa replied, feeling a certain unease. "Have you checked the stables?"

"And the barracks, and the kitchens," Dougan barked in frustration. "Elsydae has never been out this late, or this long unaccounted for. What was she about when you saw her last?"

Janessa felt a wave of guilt as she remembered their encounter. Turning back into her rooms, she paused to look blindly into the fire grate before continuing. "She was upset, to be honest. She fought with me over General D'Avrille. Then she stormed into the temple and kicked everyone out. I'm sure she went off somewhere to collect herself, and probably fell asleep there."

Dougan, who had entered the room behind his daughter, leveled her with a grave look. "It is as I feared. General D'Avrille is gone as well."

"What?" Janessa choked in shock.

"The General is gone, Janessa, and his guards lie dead outside his shattered door. Now you need to think, girl. Did your sister give you any sign that she may have been planning to run off?"

Her head spun at the startling news. Syd- gone!

"Answer me, girl," her father snapped.

"No! She was angry with me, because she believes I have sided with my council against her plans. She thinks that I will have him executed," Janessa answered, drawing her robe up around her neck as she turned her gaze back toward the fire. Her ire raised at his demanding and accusatory tone. Granted he was her father, but there was a fine line between what she would accept as a daughter and what she would accept as the ruler of Faraduen. Even in the privacy of her bedchamber.

"And is that what you have planned?" Dougan prodded.

"She has made no progress with him, Father. You must see that. He is immune to the gift, and a man such as he is a danger to Faraduen. His honor and pride would never allow him to swear his allegiance to me, no matter how much Syd would wish otherwise," Janessa ended passionately, fully secure in her choices in regards to the reticent general.

"And now she's gone, and probably gone off with him either by his choice or her own," Dougan snapped. "We must get her back, Janessa. Faydn only knows how much time we have lost already. I have guards swarming the castle and countryside looking for any sign."

"He must have taken her," Janessa cried as the reality of it set in, concern for her sister winning out over her bruised pride. "She would never have just run away with him. Surely he must have overpowered her," Janessa gasped as that singular though set in. "I must speak with Sir Bausch."

Dougan caught her arm as she tried to rush past him. "I believe you have spoken with Sir Bausch enough for one evening. We must act, now, and get your sister returned to us safely. Syd has done more for this country and for your throne than any of the rest of us. And by Faydn, you had better get your head together and help get her back."

Janessa pulled her arm from her father's grasp and drew herself up to her full height, once again offended by Dougan's brash demeanor. "If there is one person in all of Faraduen that knows what that man is capable of, and how to get my sister back, it is Sir Bausch," she intoned, her voice icy with detached authority.

"Have you lost your head, girl? Of course you think that, Janessa. He's bowed by the gift. But he's so damned enamored with you that I can't see him giving us two words of decent help. You've won yourself a right smart lap dog in that one. Can he even speak when he's in your presence? I have yet to hear him." Dougan bit hard.

"He is not as you say," she spat in return as she lifted her chin, glaring at her father as though he were any other citizen of her country who had overstepped his bounds. "The gift has no effect on him, Father. None! He loves me, and he will do my bidding for love alone. And he will help me, Father, because he is good and loyal."

"Loyal? To whom? You are just now telling me that the gift has passed this one by as well! How do we know that he has not been playing games with you of the worst sort, Janessa? By Faydn, have you gone daft? Why would you take such stupid risks?" Dougan shouted.

"Bring him and we will see who has been the fool, Father," Janessa replied with cold finality. Her face and gaze had settled into the firm lines of authority, and his tart reply died on his lips.

Dougan turned to the guards posted outside Janessa's door and directed one of the men to search for Sir Bausch and bring him back immediately. Janessa stepped back and eyed her father coldly, bristling at the harsh words he had just thrown at her. Silent moments of waiting passed, as Dougan paced relentlessly and Janessa watched his progress with the glassy eyes of one lost in the tempest of whirling thoughts and emotions.

Footsteps brought them both around, and soon the returning guard pushed Bausch roughly into the room and bowed his exit. "Sir Dougan," Bausch nodded his head in respect. Sure that he had just been called to atone for his liaison with this man's daughter, his cheeks flushed and his eyes averted in embarrassment.

"Your man has found an escape, and my question for you is what has he done with my Elsydae," Dougan growled at Bausch, coming to stand toe to toe with him.

Confused, Bausch darted a look at Janessa. "The General is gone, his guards dead, and my sister is missing. I need to know what has become of her, what he would do to her," she pleaded, the regal façade cracking as she felt fear take hold once again.

"I don't know what…" Bausch began, cut off by Dougan grabbing his roughly by the shirtfront.

"You tell me where my daughter is!"

"Sir Dougan, I am at a loss," Bausch turned again to Janessa in confusion.

"Don't tell me you weren't in on his plans. You know where he's gone and you will tell me all now or I will have the dungeons reopened just for you," Dougan menaced.

Bausch bristled at the older man's threatening tone. "You are making serious accusations against me, Sir, and I will tell you once again that I do not know what you are getting at."

"Aye, so you say now. But after an hour under the attentions of…"

"Father!" Janessa snapped, stepping in between the two men. "Charles, please. My sister is gone, and so is General D'Avrille. We can't but think the worst. I need your help," she pleaded with her words as well as her eyes. Bausch felt the pangs of the protector rise within him, but it was tempered with a trace of apprehension.

"What do you need of me, Janessa," he addressed her cautiously.

"I need Syd back," her desperation was etched deeply upon her face as she, like her father before her, grabbed at his shirt. But as Dougan had meant to threaten, Janessa anchored herself upon him like a storm tossed ship seeking the shore.

Bausch closed his eyes and filled his lungs. The apprehension grew.

"What is it exactly that you wish of me," he repeated more firmly.

"Only you will know where he will go and what he will do to her when she is no longer of use to him. I want you to hunt D'Avrille down and bring my sister back to me," she ground her distress between her teeth.

And there it was- betrayal. Janessa wanted Bausch to turn his back on his own and seek out his oldest friend, hunt him down as a fugitive, and by any means necessary bring back the enemy of his land. His inner turmoil bubbled and burned at the back of his throat.

"He would never hurt her," Bausch replied, knowing full well that had D'Avrille taken the princess he would never harm her. It went against everything the Knight stood for- as a man and as a warrior.

"He has her, and at some point he is going to have to be rid of her, Charles. Do you think that Elsydae will just go off willingly? I know that she will not. There will be a fight, and one of them will be killed. I need you to go ensure that the one dies is not my sister," Janessa begged, her voice growing low and thick.

Bausch looked down into her pleading face. "Do you realize what you are asking of me, Janessa? What you are really asking?" he whispered, searching her face for some way to save his honor, to spare himself the fate of a traitor.

Janessa clung to him fiercely, her face pale with worry. Solemnly, she nodded.

He looked again into the eyes of this woman he had come to love- the woman his country sought to destroy. If he did this thing for her, his would lose all he had known. If he did not, he would welcome the death they would surely visit upon him, for the loss of her love would have already delivered the fatal blow. Traitor to country or traitor to love- he had to choose.

"Aye, Janessa."

**SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS**

Syd's mount flew through the trees on some blind path that D'Avrille could not discern. Glad that Helios seemed adept at keeping the pace, he was left to hang on desperately and dodge errant branches. For what seemed an hour or more, the pair rode in silence while Syd concentrated on securing their escape and D'Avrille wondered that they were surviving such a treacherous ride at this breakneck speed.

Finally, the strenuous pace slowed until Syd drew her mount to a halt and waited quietly for D'Avrille to pull Helios up beside her. She placed a finger to her lips as she tilted her head, listening for the sounds of pursuers. Her lips moved in an odd, silent whisper, and after a moment she seemed satisfied that they were indeed alone. Urging her mount forward into the thick brush to her right, she signaled for D'Avrille to follow. Branches and brambles smacked at his face, legs and arms and he sincerely hoped that they would not be long upon this particular route.

They broke through the tangle moments later and found themselves in a clearing that was just discernable in the pale light of the moon. Syd pushed forward and dismounted, giving D'Avrille enough room to do the same, but he hesitated, eyeing the clearing skeptically.

"Is your intention to hide in the open?" he whispered in doubt.

"We will be safe here," Syd returned as she removed the blanket and bridle from a very tired Halifax.

D'Avrille watched her move about the clearing with no trace of apprehension. He and Helios both shifted uncomfortably, of a like mind and unable to reconcile their treacherous flight with Syd's sudden calmness. To his mind's eye, this looked like the perfect place to meet their death.

Syd stopped her busy work, having just spread her horse blanket out upon the ground, and raised a brow.

"Do you intend to sleep there, General? I believe you will find yourself sore in the morning, if you do."

"I will take first watch," he replied sharply to her jibe, his nerves on edge.

"There is no need," she moved forward and placed a hand upon the soft velvet of Helios' nose, allowing him to bump at it and bat it with his lips.

"If there is no need for diligence, Princess, then why did we just fly like bats from Great Hashmir through this tangled wilderness?" he asked brusquely but conceded a small amount, slipping achingly from his mount.

Syd smiled as a thick mist pushed its way through the trees skirting the clearing, and danced over what D'Avrille could now see was a small spring just to his left.

"A mist," he said flatly. "You would have me believe that someone with your experience in battle has faith that a light mist will hide us from attackers?"

"This is no mist, General. This is Faydn," she smiled again, helping him slip the bridle from Helios' head and handing it to him before she took up his blanket and spread it out near her own.

D'Avrille felt for a moment that he had made a grave error bringing her with him, as she had obviously lost her senses. What person put faith in a bit of moist air as protection when real men with cold, hard steel could fall upon them at any moment? In frustration, he saved himself the headache of an argument. He left her to her own devices as he trudged off to a place just inside the tree line, his hand resting firmly on the pommel of his sword.

With every good intention, D'Avrille paced as quietly as possible through the trees, but the mist thickened and he reluctantly retreated further into the clearing so as not to lose his bearings and find himself lost come morning. It was some minutes before he discovered he had been driven back fully into the meadow, and once he became aware of his new location the thick air retreated. Alarmed, D'Avrille shook himself, certain that he saw flashes of color within that mist and even more certain that he was under some sort of witching spell. He turned a questioning eye toward Syd.

The blanket where he had expected to find her was empty, and a sense of dread settled upon him as he drew his sword and turned around the glade, certain to find her in the hands of some would-be kidnappers. Seeing nothing, his worry increased until he heard a splash, and on silent feet he crept toward the pool, crouching, ready to do battle.

A cloud of white moved smoothly just beneath the water, illuminated by the gentle glow of the moon. D'Avrille kept an eye upon it while searching the tree line for signs of trouble. Seeing nothing but mist, he gave the water his full attention. A body took shape, moving purposefully, so not dead. Breeches and boots sat in a neat pile upon the bank, not far to his right. Not one sign of attack or intruder could be found, and as his mind slowly shifted from guarded tension to discordant curiosity, D'Avrille realized that it was Syd's form cutting lithely through the water, her shirt billowing about her like her precious mist in the woods. He sheathed his sword just as she broke the surface, but her contented smile did nothing to soothe his discomfort.

"Back from your walk, General," she teased, her arms dancing lithely through the water, keeping her afloat.

"Do you fancy yourself within the comforts of your own castle, Princess?" he growled back, uncomfortable with her easy demeanor.

"Aye," she smiled cryptically and slid back beneath the water's surface before he could answer back.

D'Avrille watched as she moved through the water without a care. His shoulders began to ache and his temper burn as she so disdainfully disregarded their perilous state.

"I'll have you remember that we very nearly lost our lives in your "comfortable castle" this night, Princess," he retorted quickly as she broke the surface again. "And I have no doubt that this place is equally as safe."

"You are wrong, Sir," she tossed back, "I have spent many a pleasurable hour here, and been quit hidden from the world. It's a secret of mine, this little glade. Mine and Faydn's. And she will see that we are kept hidden and safe until the morning."

"Says you," he grumbled, unconvinced. His logic cried out against her claims.

"Aye," she smiled, "says me."

Paddling forward, she reached the flat rock that jutted from the water's depths and pulled herself up upon it.

"The water is warm and relaxing, General," she called softly as she laid herself upon the rock. "You would do well to take a dip and ease your muscles. Tomorrow will be a trying day, and it may be sometime before we can rest like this again."

D'Avrille watched as she pillowed her head upon her hands and stared up into the night sky. For sometime she lay there, silent, and for just as long he stood at the bank, doing his best to keep his eyes upon the hedges. Yet, he found himself constantly fighting the sight of her, and the more he tried to look elsewhere the more he lost.

Syd smiled when she heard the soft splash, and her heart flipped in her chest of its own volition, causing her to catch her breath. Silently she mocked herself at her girlish reaction. She had made a fool of herself enough for one night with regard to him, and she had no intention of allowing herself such liberties again. What a dolt she was for having allowed herself to get so emotionally wrapped up in this situation, anyway.

Chewing over her own verbal reprimand, Syd missed the splashing of water against the rock, and it was not until D'Avrille had pulled himself up to lay next to her that she realized his proximity. All chaos broke out within her mind.

Mimicking her pose, D'Avrille gazed up into the darkened sky, searching out amongst the pinpoints of light the cause for his own unrest. The water had been as she had said, warm and relaxing, but its effects had vanished the moment he had come to rest upon this rock. He had not felt so skittish in some years, and he found he had no liking for this particular emotion's swift return. He rolled to his side to face his enemy head on.

The soft light of the moon washed down upon her with a graceful ease and played upon her features with silken fingers. The tiny, forgotten gems in her hair sparkled like pyreflies and the honey of her drying curls glistened like gold in the gentle light. Like a pixie, she was, and he was captivated by the sight of her. Without the trappings of her daily life, laying wild and free like the thicket about them he saw her as she was, a beautiful girl. Her pert yet delicate profile caught at him and he reached out to touch her cheek before he could stop himself.

The tension he had felt before took focus and built, but he was aware of its meaning now. He cared for this girl, and he hoped she would not reject him as he had so callously done to her some hours before. And though, in its entirety, the night had been tumultuous at best, she turned her eyes toward him with the welcome he most desired. With a kiss, fear became familiarity, with an embrace tension was traded for tenderness, and the two melded and merged as the mist covered and protected.

Quiet presided over the glade sometime later; its inhabitants caught firmly in the grip of sleep. A breeze rustled the leaves and caressed the water as shadow shifted and molded into sinew and bone of a size exponentially greater than common man. With twinkling colors the mist grew to match and meet it, and for the first time since the beginning of memory did Faydn and Fjorn stand face to face.

"They sleep?" he questioned.

"I've helped," she assured him.

"I have felt a stirring within Hashmir," he began. "The stench has filled your land, and is upon these two most acutely."

"I have gone to see for myself this night and it is as we had feared so long ago," she replied with the sadness of ages.

Fjorn caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips, the pain a shared one that eons of separation could not deny. "I will face it with you."

Faydn knew her estranged mate to never be false, and his declaration put paid to the great rift between them. Once again they would stand as one.

"Is it she you have chosen?" he asked, looking upon the sleeping Elsydae.

"Them," Faydn answered simply as she followed his gaze.

"Us," his eyes shifted back.

Her pleasure lit the glade, not only for the return of his affection but for her sudden realization as well.

"You found one that you can like," she teased.

"He'll do," Fjorn growled. "Not a whiny, mewling piglet like those of yours. He's learned how to work around his weakness, and I don't think he'll come crying to me every time he doesn't get his way. I am not sure how I feel about that one attaching herself to him, though."

"She's not all bad," Faydn prodded, knowing her beloved well enough to decipher his true feelings.

"Better than most. It remains to be seen what her true worth is," he ended seriously. Faydn only nodded her agreement.

"I smell the stench coming," he turned, stiffening.

"Yes," she rejoined nervously.

"Now is not the time to show our hand," he warned. Faydn bowed her head in compliance.

"Wake your children," he tipped up her chin to look into her eyes. "And then be gone back to your land before you lose them all. I will stand guard from here."

Faydn watched him move away and dissolve into the wood. Steadying herself she turned to the sleeping pair upon the rock. Peacefully they lay, unaware of the danger looming toward them. How she wished she could save them the trouble they would endure now, but she knew well that Fjorn was correct. Later would come the reckoning, and she would have to stay her hand until then.


End file.
